Archive | April, 2009

Special Considerations

30 Apr

I’d like to thank Angela Frayre for taking all the photos in the blog below, as well as pretty much all the other photos in the blogs on this page.

Two great artists

Two great artists

Also, a great thanks to Lindsey Hopper, my biggest fan.

Now, keep reading everyone. This shit is important.

Protect Yourself: You vs. the Swine Flu, Part I

29 Apr

You ever read Animal Farm?  If you did, continue reading the sentence below. If you did not, skip it and laugh as if it was the most hilarious yet tragically-poignant literary joke you’ve ever read.

If you’re reading this, you’re still alive, which means you’re a survivor of the Swine Flu epidemic, Napoleon the pig’s fiercest biological weapon.

The Swine Flu is scary. It rhymes well with the Fine Flu, but don’t be fooled. This shit will kill you… or give you symptoms identical to a regular flu.

That’s right–the Swine Flu is pretty much a flu that our body has no defenses against. What does this mean for all of the American populace that isn’t Wolverine? It means that if you come into contact with it, you’re pretty much screwed.

The horror.

The horror.

Thankfully for the six of you reading this, as well as you Mr. President (winks), I hold the keys to survival.

Shouldn't you be leading our country?

Yea, I see rascal.

I don’t think I can make myself any more clear than this: the enemy is here, the real enemy, and it is the pig population. They stand in their mud pens, eating corn, mushrooms, oats and grass, wallowing and getting fat, just like Michael Moore does in his palatial Beverly Hills mud pen. Pigs, and Michael Moore for that matter, are completely evil and constantly plotting. Plotting for what? Their great escape. Their escape from what? Sounds like paradise to me.

I will save you.

Yesterday, as an experiment, Lanny and I took a trip to Mexico City with a completely healthy –and completely unconscious– Derek Brozowski. Our plan was to infect a healthy, Polish body, and then cure it. Cure it with our science and our love –but mainly just with the science.

Your last, color-coordinated, hope.

Your last, color-coordinated, hope.

We arrive at Mexico City around 3 pm. We make it easily through security, the appearance of a bound and gagged Caucasian hardly a cause for alarm at the U.S./Mexico border. I speak Spanish to the guard.

“Hola, ameego!” I say, I’m very happy to see brown people.

“Hola, señor. ¿Tienes cualquier cosa declarar?”

“Um…Hola, ameego! May yamo Kyle! Goostas el Texas Rangers?”

Here the border officer stood silently and motioned for two other officers sitting in a small both a few yards away. Me and Lanny are removed from the car and strip searched while our car is ran over by a drug dog and a couple of local children. Derek is tied up and beaten, much like a piñata. The guards, Lanny and I all enjoy a couple cervezas while watching the children play with Derek’s limp, pallid body. I love this moment. Freeze. Saving moment in mind.

We drive for 15 minutes and stop by a local convenience store to buy Derek some new clothes. We buy him a Tommy Hillfigger windbreaker and some black windbreaker shorts. They don’t match. Derek’s going to be pissed.

When we reached Mexico City, it was dark. We thought it’d be safe to camp in a vacant lot, because bad guys wouldn’t dare waste their time in an unpopulated, poorly lit, secluded area.

Lanny was shot.

We woke up the next morning and got ready for our day of science. Lanny passed out a couple of times and Derek kept trying to wake up from his drug/blunt-force-trauma induced slumber. What a card. What a god damn fucking shit damn card.

We walk up to the Iglesia del Ser Supremo, a small church within Mexico City. It is here that we inject Derek with a dangerously high level of PCP and convince him that all of Mexico is made of candy. This sets off a feeding frenzy the likes of which no man has ever seen, most likely because it was a feeding frenzy that involved eating an unopened bag of Mexican Doritos and a feral alley cat. Derek licked hand-rail after hand-rail, ate urinal cake after urinal cake until he passed out from overstimulation and an almost lethal blood toxicity level.

Pictured: Hero.

Pictured: Hero.

When Derek came to hours later, we told him what we did. We told him we had done it for the good of science –for the good of humanity. Derek took several swings at us before throwing up blood and falling asleep on the ground.

Lanny was starting to feel guilty so I told him that real scientists never feel guilty and that sometimes they have to make sacrifices for science and that if he really loved science he’d give me 20 bucks becaues I really want it and I really want that marianette over there because it reminds me of Wesley and I miss Wesley he is so sweet last weekend Wesley and me played Zombies but not the videogame we both dressed up in makeup and tried to scare each other but we decided we’d rather hug so we did that all day.

Derek eventually came to. Derek eventually came to realize that if he wanted to live, he needed to shut up and listen to what me and Lanny and marianette Wesley had to say. But unfortunately, our thrilling conclusion is forthcoming. Stay tuned for scenes from the next BLOG *boom*

Next week on: BLOG

“Kyle, what do you mean?! I have to put that where?” Derek screams

*Kyle turns, camera zooms into beautiful profile.*

“If you want to live, you’ll put that damn thing in your–”

*truck explodes*

“Lanny, I’m telling you it’s real!

“Kyle, it’s a damned puppet!”

*Kyle slaps Lanny, tears in his eyes. Lanny looks back at Kyle, grips an amulet around his neck and rips it off. He places the amulet in Kyle’s hand*

“I guess this means I can forget about Morocco. Lift the damn curse on your own.”

*Lanny gets into helicopter*

*cuts to Wesley, clothed in nothing but a loin cloth, standing in the middle of a parking lot

“Why am I covered in honey?! WHERE IS EVERYBODY? DEREEEEEEK!”


Celebrity Tweets

24 Apr

Hello, planet Earth.

The other day, also known as Wednesday, I was adding celebrities to my Twitter account. For those of you who don’t know, Twitter is a website that functions kind of like facebook’s home page: purely status updates. You have 140 characters to tell the people subscribing to your Twitter page what you’re doing. You have “followers” who can read your status updates. Another cool feature is the ability to respond to people’s Tweets. This is signified by @username of the person you’re responding to, then your response.

Why was I doing this? Because celebrities are so bizarre. I really enjoy reading their moment by moment updates throughout the day and even being able to respond to them. Here are some of the more interesting updates I’ve read recently. My Twitter name is IronKyle.

THE_REAL_SHAQ @IronKyle: No, I wouldn’t credit “Kazaam” with my success on the court.

IronKyle @ THE_REAL_SHAQ: Well then you’re an idiot.

THE_REAL_SHAQ@IronKyle: Who the hell is this?

IronKyle@THE_REAL_SHAQ: I’m Kyle. Iron Kyle. You may have read my blog,

THE_REAL_SHAQ@IronKyle: I put up some parental blocks to keep my daughters from reading it.

IronKyle@THE_REAL_SHAQ: Would you say you blocked my site like you block an opponent’s weak jumper?

THE_REAL_SHAQ@IronKyle: I’d say I blocked it like a parent blocks a shitty web site.

IronKyle@THE_REAL_SHAQ: BOOM! You’re awesome.


johncmayer: Ever notice there’s always still a street in Manhattan you’ve never heard of? “Ever eat at that place on Zance and Mortimer?”

IronKyle@johncmayer: Is that where you’re eating today?

johncmayer@IronKyle: Uh, no. Those are two made up streets.

IronKyle@johncmayer: Do you still play that song where you compare your lover’s vagina to a house of mirrors?

johncmayer@IronKyle: “Your Body Is a Wonderland”?

IronKyle@johncmayer: Yea. I think you refer to your boner as a “bag full of yummy fair candy”

johncmayer@IronKyle: Man, that song is about making love to a beautiful woman–how her body never ceased to amaze me, because it was hers.

IronKyle@johncmayer: You should write a song about aliens

johncmayer@IronKyle: I don’t think I’ll be doing that, IronKyle

IronKyle@johncmayer: Well then you’re an idiot.


Oprah@IronKyle: Thanks 4 ur support, IronKyle! I’m glad you enjoy the show.

IronKyle@Oprah: You’re welcome. Just be sure you keep that badass rack on the air for another ten years, ok?

Oprah@IronKyle: That’s horribly offensive.

IronKyle@Oprah: I was just kidding. It’s not offensive if it’s just kidding.

Oprah@IronKyle: Who taught you that?

IronKyle@Oprah: Why Oprah, don’t you remember?…It was you, 6 years ago. Episode 541.

Oprah@IronKyle: We’d already made about 2,000 episodes by that time. I think you just made up a number. I never taught you that.

IronKyle@Oprah: Take off your clothes more.

Oprah@IronKyle: …I’m not going to do that. I don’t think I want you following me on Twitter anymore.

IronKyle@Oprah: Can I still follow you in my car, though?

Oprah@IronKyle: I hope you’re kidding. That’s not a funny joke. I have good friends of mine that have dealt with stalking.

IronKyle@Oprah: What happened to you, Oprah? You used to be so cool. Will you do a show in 3-D this year?

Oprah@IronKyle: No.

IronKyle@Oprah: Sometimes I put on 3-D goggles and pretend that the whole world is a giant 3-D movie. What’s your phone number?

TwittAdmin@IronKyle: Hello, IronKyle. Unfortunately, you’ve violated our Terms of Use and I’m going to have to remove your account.

IronKyle@TwittAdmin: Well then you’re an idiot.


Time for Science.

22 Apr

What is an Awesosome? What? You don’t know? Yes you do. You HAVE to know. No…come now, no need for tears. Wait…oh god, put that down! NO!

—Citation above for police report.

March 16, 2009, discovery of the very rare, but very REAL Awsosome.

An Awesosome is a biological organism that will not only give you a viral infection but will kick your ass and steal your girlfriend. It will not respect your personal space, and you won’t mind. The Awesosome is so cool, it actually poses when it’s on a slide.

Some (Katie McCann) might tell you that the birth of the Awesosome was the result of me mistyping the word “awesome.” This is a bald faced lie. If she tells you this, don’t listen. She’s a bald faced liar. Listen to a guy with some hair on his face. Listen to this guy:



The Awesosome is a real-life biological organism, roughly the size of a white blood cell…but only if it wants to be. The Awesosome also has enough drive to improve itself and make changes in its life. It can get a job, a wife, or a gun– but believe me, you don’t want it to have a gun. Awesosomes are crack shots. They have been found at the site of “Awesome” events (signing of the Constitution, invention of the hot dog, my birth), but scientists have yet to discover whether or not the Awesosomes are a result of the event, or the event a result of the Awesosome. When asked for comment, the Awesosome replied “It’s whatever,” then took a drag off his microscopic cigarette and sped away.

Before I go any further, I’m going to show you a photograph of a real awesosome:

Not included in picture: magnum, motorcycle, whiskey bottle and harum of hot, single-cell bitches.

Not included in picture: magnum, motorcycle, rockin' theme music and harem of hot, single-cell bitches.

Yea. See that? Jeez. Awesosomes are a key ingredient in the bacteria cultures used to create whiskey, or, as Webster’s defines it (kind of): “The most badass of badass drinks. Whiskey is also referred to as ‘gasoline for hardasses.’ It keeps the pistons of awesome pumping at full capacity.” Wow. That’s impressive. That’s whiskey. That’s an Awesosome.

Awesosomes have also been found creating colonies on leather jackets, pairs of Kyle Irion’s Levi’s, and various types of electric guitars. Not this one.

Awesosomes are now being used for medicinal purposes. Mainly for those who are what the medical profession terms as “Ugly. Stanky Ass Ugly.” Here’s an example of a success story:

*Results not typical

*Results not typical

Yes. Yes it is true. That was me. That was how I lived my life–some idiot on the sidewalk with a stupid t shirt on, looking off at something like a douche. How embarrassing. Then, I started my Awesosome treatment and look! LOOK AT THOSE TIRES! LOOK AT THE PART IN MY HAIR! Look at how Gatsby I am.

The Awesosome has been found on the remains of some of America’s greatest heroes. Men such as George Washington, Theodore Roosevelt, Michael Jordan, that kid from Jerry Maguire, Willie Nelson, and Steve Carrell have all been tested for Awesosomes. All have had them.

You ever write a blog and just feel like posting the damn thing half way through? Of course you don’t. You don’t understand the plight of the writer. Not everybody can have a bl…*covers microphone* wait, anybody can…? Well that doesn’t make any sense, why would the inter… oh. All right. *uncovers microphone* Well, my producer has just informed me that you can, in fact, blog about crap too. But you probably shouldn’t. It breaks your heart. It absorbs your life. It forces you to constantly ask your friends infuriating questions such as “Hey man, have you read the latest one?” You do however, get the priceless skill of learning to not look disappointed when people seem indifferent to your (obvious) creative brilliance. God. What am I talking about? I’m sorry. I’m watching the Today show and reading celebrity Twitters. Ok, I’m wrappin’ this shit up. Bye everybody.

Liveblogging My Life: Friday, April 17th, 2008

18 Apr

9:16 am:

I wake up to find that it is 9:16. I have no time for coffee, cereal, or pants.

9:27 am:

I’m on the bus. When I step on board, I immediately look at the driver, a surly old chap with a lovely tattoo on his arm of a naked woman riding a flaming snake, and say “Uh-oh! Looks like we’re in for some trouble with this rascal behind the wheel! Right everyone?” I was at this point, the only person on the bus. The bus driver turned to me and lifted up his shirt. He had a gun. I sat down and said nothing else for the rest of the trip.

9:43 am:

Mmm… campus. I love campus. So much learning, so much youthful exuberance and joy. I see a man preaching in the “Free Speech Zone.” He looks like if somebody took Al from Home Improvement and dried him in the hot desert sun. He’s like an Al-Raisin. I walk up to this leather-faced, bearded evangelical and hold out my hand for a high five, beckoning him to raise his hand. As soon as he does, I drop mine and yell “Who’s secretly Jewish?!” I got him so good. He shoved me and I said nasty words.

10:00 am:

I’m in my American Literature class. Hemingway ‘n shit.

10:18 am:

The guy sitting in front of me has fallen asleep. I need to prank him. But how? I briefly pause my 18-minute speech on the moral implications of Hemingway’s having a big bushy beard to consider this. The teacher then hesitantly begins to speak. I raise one finger in the air, covering my mouth with my free hand in a thoughtful pose that would later be painted by the creepy mouth breather that sits 2 rows over. I then insert my finger into my mouth, wetting it thoroughly. I lean forwards, scoping out his ear. Slowly I raise my hand above him, then, as fast as I can, I ball up my fist and punch him square in the temple. “GOT YOU WITH MY LIT HAND!” I say, proudly. I am proud of my lit hand.

1:10 pm

I am out and about in a dorm cafeteria. Kerr Hall, in fact. A lot of people think dorm food is bad. I disagree. I love it. I love the chicken patty/meat sponge. I also l0ve to chomp down on the salisbury steak/pork chop. Oh! but my favorite food they serve is lasagna/stapler.

8:36 am, April 17th, 2000

HOLY SHIT TIME PARADOX! There are so many things I need to warn myself about. Don’t see Date Movie! Don’t quit playing piano. It’s way cooler than guitar and believe me, you don’t have a surplus of cool to throw around in your later years. One more thing: your hair! The giant curly hair! It didn’t really look that cool. It was just kind of ok. Quirky at best. Almost helmet-like. Oh yea, and it’s time to dump your AIG stock. ALL of it.

6:15 pm, April 17th, 2008

I’m working out with Josh now. He’s mad because I brought all my gym clothes with me in my car and, after seeing what Josh was wearing, picked out the outfit that most resembled his. He keeps getting angry at me when I refer to our outfits as “uniforms.” They are uniforms. They are.

God, it is hot in this room. It feels like I’m blogging in a fucking Korean jungle, like grandpa did (Please see “Liveblogging My Life: March 4, 1951; Huntin’ Charlie”–my grandfather’s old blog.).

I’m Drunk

17 Apr

For today I dcedied to blog drunk. hhahaha.


Ok, so drunk.

Well, you know wha ti love? Spring time. It’s so lovely. So much sun and frizbeez. SO what the FUCK is up with Lost? Hey, Hey J.J. Abrams (lost producer) I don’t give a shit about Kate’s back story. I don’t. Where’s Jack? Where’s locke with his mysteriously calm demeanor even in the face of smoke monster.

Smoke mONSTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Anywy. i’m a bear. a bear cub.

One time, me, julian, jeremy(?), wes, and josh and rolf were driving around and I drove through a big puddle.  SO WET. all of them. So i bought them bacon cheeseburgers.

The other time I was alive, we talked Derek into pouring water onto Box while he was asleep so he’d freak out and think he was drowning. Box woke up and just looked at Derek, who was just standing there with a full cup of water.SO WHAT DOES DEREK DO? HE POIURS THE WHOLE DAMN CUP ON BOX! HAHAHAHA LOLZ LOLCATZ PORN.


Tonight I playedl ike 4 zombie rounds in a row. BY MY GOD DAMN SELF. I got to level 12. For those of you who don’t know, that means I range between sam miller and Bruce Campbell.

me and derek got kind of far in zombies. fuck it all, though, because we didnt’ make 26 like me and sam. me and sam are the ballzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

me and sam one time got to level 26 in zombies andwe also got to the playoffs in flag football. sam is awesome at almost everything.

i love it here in denton

i’m drunk as hell

is helld runk? how drunk is hell?

this is sawesoem


where is fucking emily pool? i facebook messenged her like 4 minutes ago. she must be equally drunk. and with her cats.if i had cats like her i’d be out on fry with them.

wes won’t get dsrunk with us. that’s ok. i respect his rights to have class at e3ight. 2es is a responsible hyoung man. he donates plasma.


i’m drunk

holy shit

this feels great.

damn you , sam

sam made me think being drunk was beint ok \












16 Apr

Just so everybody knows, you don’t have to have a WordPress account to comment. Just speak your sexy, sexy mind.

My Interview With the CIA

15 Apr

Tuesday I had a job interview with the CIA. I drove up to the CIA Dallas office, apprehensive yet hopeful. I put on my Mavs Fan For Life t-shirt, turn my Cowboys hat backwards on my head, throw on my Rangers jacket and blow my nose on my Dallas Stars hoodie and began the walk to the offices. I wanted to look full of spirit for my interview. I have to change though, when the men at the door say that what I’m wearing isn’t appropriate attire for a formal appointment, so I go back to my car and put on my suit. I look fantastic.

“Hello. I’m here for my interview.” I say, nervously. My back and legs are covered in a cold sweat– my crotch, several small drops of urine.  In my stomach, there are butterflies. Probably because of the nervousness–but more likely because of the handful of butterflies I ate out of the flower beds adjacent to the sidewalk. I thought eating them would give me positive, butterfly-like energy. It didn’t. It gave me the runs and feelings of guilt and shame that I haven’t experienced since that one time I yelled out “Hey everybody! Wait for the hilarious bloopers!” at the end of “the Passion of the Christ.”

“Who are you here to see, young man?” The receptionist asks me. God, they’re already trying mind games with me. ‘Who am I here to see?’ Are they kidding me? I want to reach out and open palm slap this woman, but I won’t. No. I’ll do ’em one better. I’ll beat her mentally. No, I’m too scared.

“I’m here to see…the government?” I put my two hands up in order to make the “me no know” motion. She laughs. I think she wants to have sex with me.

“What kind of business do you have here, sir?” She seems impatient. This hurts my feelings a little bit, mostly because  the eating of the butterflies has made me very, very sensitive.

“I have a job interview,” I say.

“Ok. That’s fine. If you’ll just have a seat, Major Peters will be out any moment.”

“Thank you.” At this, I lift up the pen that is chained to the desk and, in a manner that can only be described as ‘sextreme,’ wrap the chain around my pointer finger and make a jacking off motion with the pen. Then I rip it off the desk at the point of climax, and with the essence of cool I lean over and say “…Oops…”

We bone.

Approximately 15 minutes after I ejaculate I am asked into a small room by a Major Peters. He’s a nice man–tall, clean cut, eyes stern yet inviting, as if he knows that everyone he’s looking at has something important to do. I automatically hate him.

“So, Mr. Irion, I see you applied to be an OOR officer overseas.”

“Yes sir. I would very much value my time in the Gaygency.” I snicker.

“Excuse me?” He said. He’s still smiling, but with a tinge of confusion.

“Gaygency. Remember? From ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls.’ How many people called you guys about my job?”

“P…nobody. Mr. Irion, nobody called about your employment here. And I have no idea what ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls’ is.” I burst out laughing at the point of someone not having read my material. I’m laughing almost to the point of hysterics. My gut starts to hurt. I spit up 3 butterflies.

“You haven’t read it yet?” I asked, “You still on that Easter one? Cool, man. You’re busy. You’re busy.”

There are several moments of markedly uncomfortable silence. I decide to just break the ice and cut to the chase.

“When do I get my check?”

I’m violently removed from the CIA offices by two burly, gay men.

Ugh. They weren’t really gay.

The Central Intelligence Gaygency lived up to its name today. I didn’t get the stupid job, but I didn’t want it anyway. I still have my friends, and that’s really all that matters!

Also, I’m going to need a place to live and some food to eat once I graduate–so–if I could get you guys to maybe leave addresses for me to stay at–that’d be great. I need a home. Adopt me.

For Kyle the Bell Tolls

12 Apr

Recently, I’ve been notified that sometimes people, old people, have to get jobs in order to make what my father lovingly refers to as “money.” I’ve never had a need for money. All my expenses have been paid through an intricate system of bartering and a unique economic strategy I call “stealing.”

When I went to college, I decided I wanted to pick  a degree that would almost automatically ensure me six figures or more of dollars a year (Sorry, I’m still getting used to using money cents terms in my life.). Anyway, the major I ended up picking was English, because I knew that Ernest Hemingway was rich as hell and he went on boats and did big game hunting. That sounded perfect–just what I wanted to do. The cruel joke was revealed to me two weeks ago, when I went to a local publisher, handed them a manuscript of my first novel, “Kyle’s Alright: The Kyle Irion story, with a foreward by Maury Povich.” I then patiently waited to receive my boat. After twenty or so minutes of standing silently at the front desk, coughing to receive attention, then looking away as if I hadn’t, I asked the woman where my “damn money boat” was. She looked at me, confused. I told her that authors get money, usually in increments of large, unwieldy piles, for their work. She laughed. I growled. She looked nervous and backed away from me. I looked hungry and stepped toward the desk. However, I was already leaning on it, so all I could really do was lean forward slightly. After several uncomfortable seconds, I backed away. It was here that she told me that manuscripts had to be accepted and then published and then enjoyed by several thousand readers before I could have anything close to Hemingway-esque glory. I asked her what about the guy who wrote Goosebumps, can I just get what he got? I could not.

Have you ever seen me cry? If you said yes to this question, consider yourself marked. If you said no, believe me, it’s not pretty. Long story short, I cried. I hate it when people tell me “Sir, no, there aren’t any…millions of money bucks…in that fountain. Please, leave.” I figured I was being Punk’d, so I ran up and viciously assaulted the closest guy in a trucker hat, not because he looked like Ashton Kutcher, but because he probably thought he did. I wasn’t being Punk’d. I was being Truth’d.

So what do I do? I can’t just give up, right?

I was really asking. Could I give up? No, of course not. So, last Monday, or “Funday” as I call it, I heard an ad on the radio advertising advertising opportunities with the CIA. I love James Bond, and I love abbreviations. I lv. abbr.’s One day, I’ll write a blog completely in abbreviations, and they’ll have to close down the internet because of all the traffic to my site. I’m saving that one, though, for when dick jokes aren’t funny anymore. *Shivers*

I applied online, and it took me half an hour. This is roughly 28 minutes more than I’d wanted to spend filling this application out. After filling it out, I clicked “submit” and then opened my wallet, so I could literally watch all the centavos entran mi carpeta. No go. No centavos. No entran. No speaky ingles. So I figured that they were probably going to want to interview me first, to make sure that I actually own a wallet. I was so excited I made this face:, that's not right., that's not right.

The face I made was closer to this:

That's it. There you go. that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

So there I am. I’m waiting. I’m anticipating. I’m respirating. Sure enough, I never get a call from the CIA. I’m not sure why, but they never gave me a ring. I signed up to be a secret recruiter. Pretty much I would of gone overseas to find people who I thought were CIA material and bring them into the fold. Why did I think I would be qualified for this? The same reason anybody thinks about joining the CIA: I really liked The Recruit with Al Pacino and Colin Farrell. What is it about me that’s so un-CIA? Is it that I have a degree in writing and literature? Could it be that I have no military experience whatsoever? Could it possibly be that my last job was listed as a “Salad Cook”? No. I will posit that the CIA is not interested in me because every single staff member is afraid that I would steal their job.

That’s it. Nothing else makes sense. Please call or e-mail your congressman and lobby for my employment in the Central Intelligence Agency, or as I call it (at least until they wise up) the Centrall Intelligence Gay-gency. Get out there and make a difference, kids.

Marshmallowy Candy and Crucifixtion. YUMMY!

11 Apr

So Sunday is Easter. Today (when I started this…thing…) is Good Friday. I have in fact had a good Friday. So hurray! I believe in God again. Anyway, I recently heard about a new kind of the Easter marshmallow candy known as “Peeps.” They now have chocolate Peeps. **Sits for roughly 45 minutes staring blankly at computer screen. “Where the hell do I go from here?” I think to myself. OH I KNOW! Ok. Now I’m inspired.**

Honestly, who among us knows why we hide Easter eggs on Easter (other than the fact that it would be abundantly stupid to call them Christmas eggs), or why the mascot for Easter is a giant rabbit? I sure as hell don’t. And if I don’t, you better not know either, because if you do, that means you got one up on me, and that makes you dangerous. I don’t like dangerous people. Dangerous people make me nervous, and I don’t like to be nervous. Being nervous makes me gassy and needy. I fixed St. Patrick’s day, I turned April Fool’s into a day celebrated by scholars and academics around the world, and now it’s time for me to blow this Easter shit down to China town. Let’s make a memory.

A long time ago, way before Rocky I, the Persians started celebrating a festival called Nowrooz every year around the time as the Spring Equinox. This served as their New Years celebration.

You can call me Xerxeaster from now on! Let's kill some Athenians!

Once a year King Xerxes demanded to be called "King Xerxeaster."

This tradition is roughly 2,5oo years old. Some believe that Darius I put the Holy Grail in a giant, pink Easter egg and hid it from his people as an Easter joke. Of course, we have yet to recover the Holy Grail, and we probably won’t ever recover it unless we start taking all the Indiana Jones movies a lot more seriously.

The egg is also seen as a symbol for rebirth and renewal, a parallel to the biblical story of Jesus’ resurrection.

Pre-Christian Saxons, a big bunch of Germanic tribes that invented the saxophone (Editor’s note: saxophone invented by Adolphe Sax. Kyle’s an idiot.), had a goddess called Eostre. The feast for this lovely ethereal lady was held on March 21, their vernal equinox. Her animal was the spring hare, or rabbit if you’re not a pretentious bastard like the guy who wrote the Wikipedia article. I hate that guy.

Pope Gregory the Great (preceded by Pope Philip the Just OK) ordered his missionaries to preach from old religious sites and absorb them into the christian doctrine. This would explain the Easter egg’s presence in western, predominantly Christian, culture.

For Orthodox Christians, the eggs are called Orthodox Easter Eggs and they’re painted red to symbolize the blood of Christ. I paint my easter eggs green to symbolize the blood of the Grinch. It’s taught that when Mary came to visit Christ’s tomb, she brought some eggs to share with the other women who were grieving. Upon seeing Jesus risen, the eggs became red…Commie Red. (Editor’s note: The eggs turned red to symbolize the blood of Christ. There are no communist leanings in the Gospel. Kyle’s an idiot.)

The Easter bunny was brought to America by the Pennsylvanian Dutch. The bunny’s roots are in Germany. For years these Easter bunnies were called “Oschter Haws,” a phoenetic pronunciation of the German word Osterhase. Children were told to hide baskets in secluded parts of their homes and the Easter bunny would come and lay eggs in it. This was a long time ago when rabbits layed eggs…like the 80’s or something. Cows also reproduced as cells do, by splitting. (Editor’s note: I’m really sorry.)

So German.


Happy Easterz, bitches.

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