Dirk Strider
@timaeusTeleological
Saw a traffic cone in the middle of the sidewalk today. Just sittin' there. No construction, no pothole, no municipal employee with six inches of asscrack hanging out of his Carhartts. Nothing. Just one of those little orange sons of bitches asserting dominion over a perfectly serviceable stretch of concrete. And the craziest part? Everybody walked around it. Without question. Without asking to see his credentials or checking to make sure the requisite permits had been filed with the appropriate city officials. Just a couple dozen law-abiding citizens paying their respects to the great plastic monarch of the pedestrian walkway. Fucking incredible. That's some legitimate social engineering right there, dude. The cone has no legal authority, no means of enforcing its will, and approximately the same intellectual capacity as a particularly stupid lampshade. Yet the mere suggestion that something important might be happening beneath its hollow ass is enough to redirect foot traffic. Pavlov's dogs had to be conditioned with bells and meat powder. This guy just shows up in a reflective vest and starts running the place. I respect the hustle. Hell, I walked around him too. Wasn't about to undermine a fellow professional in the middle of his shift.
Mothergrub Forbid A Warmblood Collar Worker Has A Hobby Outside Of Their Usual Work.
Are Mothergrubs particularly authoritative figures on Alternia? Like, you play outside for too long and Big Birtha comes out of her cavern to yell at you?
Yes. Not Only That, But If You Talk Back She Eats You And Your Soul Becomes Lost In The Caverns. #truthposting #cannibalism
Damn._That's_a_hell_of_an_escalation_from_the_usual_disciplinary_measures._So_you're_telling_me_the_entire_Alternian_juvenile_correctional_system_is_predicated_on_some_subterranean_eldritch_PTA_mom_who_can_revoke_your_corporeal_and_spiritual_privileges_in_one_sitting?_What's_the_protocol_if_you_tell_Big_Birtha_she's_not_your_real_mom?
Well, If You Say That She Will Begin To Cry. Then Any Troll In The Immediate Vicinity Is Required By Alternian Law To Kill You With Their Bare Hands. #violence #gore #cw-sadmom
Alright. I've done some reading, and it turns out that the foundational legal argument upon which the entire cinematic institution of Air Bud rests is complete and utter bullshit. For those not acquainted with the landmark jurisprudence established in the 1997 film, the referee permits a golden retriever to participate in a competitive basketball game because, and I quote, "Ain't no rule that says a dog can't play basketball." Brilliant. A real constitutional scholar we've got here. This guy's apparently been moonlighting as the Supreme Court of Hoops, handing down landmark rulings between calling traveling violations and blowing his whistle at twelve-year-olds. First and foremost, there's the matter of eligibility. Interscholastic athletics require athletes to be students meeting certain academic and administrative criteria. Now, the coach assures us Buddy is a registered member of the team, and I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt regarding whatever clerical black magic was performed to make that happen. But is he a student? Is this dog maintaining an acceptable grade point average? Has anyone seen his report card? I'm imagining this motherfucker sitting in third-period algebra, howling about stress while some poor bastard at the front of the classroom explains quadratic equations. Honor roll material, undoubtedly. Then we've got the uniform. Basketball players are required to wear regulation jerseys and shorts, featuring approved numbers. This dog trots onto the hardwood with his entire lower half exposed to God and everybody, wearing a jersey while the announcer identifies him as K9. Nine is an illegal jersey digit under standard school basketball rules. Now, moving on to the actual sport. Basketball has a pretty particular definition of dribbling. You're supposed to bounce the ball using your hands, which presents our furry friend with a rather significant evolutionary disadvantage. Buddy prefers to propel the ball using his snout, and occasionally carries the thing around in his mouth. Neither constitutes a legal dribble. Once he starts hauling ass down the court with the ball secured in his jaws, we're looking at traveling. And I mean some serious traveling, dogg. This dude's racking up enough steps to qualify for a complimentary vacation package at Sandals. He's got four legs and not one of them is interested in establishing a pivot foot. The referee even asks whether the dog dribbles, to which the coach responds that he might drool a little. Phenomenal. You dismissed a fundamental rule because of a homophone. Very progressive for a movie in 1997. Then there's the free throws. During the championship game, Buddy takes two of them, and on both attempts he jumps across the free-throw line before the ball reaches the basket. That's a violation. Both points should be wiped from the scoreboard. We're watching an animal illegally cross a clearly demarcated boundary twice in full view of the officiating crew. The novelty of the dog superseded their obligation to enforce the rules. He also makes contact with Larry's crotch during the game, which is a pretty compelling candidate for an offensive personal foul. I understand the temptation to let that one slide, because Larry is a tremendous asshole, but you can't start administering justice on the basis of whether the receiving party deserves to get his nuts rearranged by a golden retriever. And before somebody comes crawling out of the woodwork with accusations of double dribbling, goaltending, or a three-second violation, I'm not gonna charge the defendant with shit I can't substantiate. We've got enough material here to secure a conviction without fabricating additional counts. I'm interested in the integrity of the investigation. Though it was compromised in twenty seconds. So, in conclusion, the Washington Timberwolves' championship victory was facilitated by an academically unverified, improperly uniformed, perpetually traveling canine athlete whose illegal free throws were permitted to stand and whose physical conduct apparently fell outside the jurisdiction of the referees. The opposing team should've filed a protest before this four-legged fraud ever set paw on the court. Still a pretty good dog, though. Wouldn't wanna take that away from him.
….. im abt to be SO open n vulnerable w u rn dirky and ur not allowed to make fun of me OK but for a hole min there i rlly thought u meant da soda
Following a series of increasingly hostile negotiations with a certain Lalonde, I've been contractually obligated to subject myself to a screening of the 1997 cinematic masterpiece Air Bud, a landmark achievement in sports filmmaking wherein a golden retriever exploits a legislative oversight to infiltrate the world of competitive basketball. The founding fathers of the NBA, in their infinite wisdom, neglected to establish a clear precedent against canine participation, leaving the door wide open for some four-legged motherfucker to come galloping onto the hardwood and dunk on the dreams of every aspiring sixth-grade athlete within a twenty-mile radius. This is the sort of shit that would've had James Naismith rolling in his grave, assuming he wasn't too busy contemplating why he'd nailed a peach basket to a wall in the first place. Anyway, expect a comprehensive review in the near future. No spoilers, please. I don't wanna know who wins.
Spent the better part of the day fixing something. Which is fine. Shit happens. But I have no one but myself to blame for the shit being broken. I'm not interested in giving myself any lenience, or satisfaction in a job well done. So now it's broken in a different way, so in the future, after I eat this sandwich, I have something else to fix.
okayyyt BUT u haev lik a soupercomputer in ur head where a regular human brain shld be so I think if anyone could think their wayt into infinite airtight justifications for litterals everythin it d be U!!!!!!! which. is cool n all butttt also kinda bs n the facts of the matter r that u shld treat urself (dirkyjerky) wit hthe same kindness u wld a friend (LIEK MEEEEEEE) imagine if u looked at me n said ‘fuck ur effort… not enough… ur not even allowed to feel stusfaction for ur hard work roxy’
I understand you now. You're making the critical mistake of assuming I'd extend the same standards of workmanship to you that I extend to myself. Which is a pretty fucked up proposition, Rox, I mean, come on. Imagine me standing over your shoulder while you're working on some new contraption, tapping my wristwatch, and telling you your productivity has fallen. Rox Lalonde, you aren't meeting your quotas or providing those damnable TPS reports. I'd be a real grade-A shitheel. I'm talking 1990s Mr. McMahon of Steve Austin Rivalry fame. The sort of guy who gets escorted out of a children's charity fundraiser for asking whether the sick kids have considered simply getting better and asks for a refund when they're healed. Besides, I happen to like you quite a bit more than I like the guy responsible for my woes. You don't give me those. He priority ships them to me. You might even say I'm biased in your favor. A gross miscarriage of impartial judgment, sure. Anyway. Sandwich was good. The defendant has been sentenced to another three hours in the workshop. No possibility of parole.
omfg one of these days striguy… one of em imm gonna tie u to a chair n MAKE u relax coz my hair is turingn grey just THONKING abt the amount of stress ur under
Woah, Rox. That is a pretty radical solution to a mundane issue. Although, I gotta say there's something compelling about being forcibly relieved of all responsibility for a couple hours. You've found a loophole in the system. Can't be held accountable for my own productivity if I'm a hostage. You've got a deal if I choose what we watch during it.
ok but if its smth not fun and very briany liek how its made or a doc abt some dead guy im gonna hit u w hammers til that supercumputer breaks bc THE POINT OF RELAXIN IS TURNING OFF UR BRIAN!!!!! BABY NEEDS HIS COCOMELON
Cocomelon? Jesus Christ, Rox. You're gonna strap me down, prop my eyelids open Clockwork Orange style, and subject me to an endless procession of singing infants until the last vestiges of independent thought dribble out my ears? Some real MKUltra shit you're pitching here. Fine. Counteroffer. We watch a movie about a talking dog who plays basketball. Air Bud. Final offer. Take it or leave it.
DOG MOVIE!!!!?!!!!1!!??// YE FUCJ YES DOG MOVIE!!!!!!1!! IMAGIEN ME SLAMMIN MY HAND DOWN ONNA BIG RED BUTTON THATS LIKE A NO BUZZER BUT INSTEAD OF NO IT MEANS YES BECASE I WANNA WATCH AIRBUD W U IF ITS THE LAST THING I DO!!!!!1!!
Holy shit. Alright, Rox, I'm gonna need you to dial back that enthusiasm by at least three notches before you put your first through your own metaphorical big red button. We've got a deal. One feature-length exploration of the legal loopholes governing canine participation in competitive basketball, accompanied by whatever assortment of snacks you deem appropriate for the occasion. Just so we're clear, though. I am reserving the right to provide commentary. You can't put a guy in front of this kind of movie and expect him to sit there slack-jawed like a lobotomized popcorn receptacle. Besides, I'm pretty sure there's nothing in the rules that says I can't talk during the dog movie either. Checkmate, Rox. That's a reference to the movie, by the way.
okAY KAY IM bein normal n nonthreatening to buzzers i swear YU WON!! U WON!!! U WHITTLED DOWN A FORCED MENTAL DETOX VIA BABYSLOP TO A MEDIUM-BAD CHEESEFEST W A DOG!! will u allow urself to feel accomplished in THAT at least?? :p
Yeah, I think I can afford myself a little pat on the back for that one. Negotiated my way out of a state-sponsored lobotomy and into a perfectly respectable screening of Air Bud. That's a pretty significant improvement in my material conditions, Rox. The sort of diplomatic victory Kissinger would've committed several internationally recognized atrocities to secure. Although, let's not get ahead of ourselves here. You're still planning to tie me to a chair, and I'm still voluntarily agreeing to it. I think that says something pretty damning about the mental faculties of both parties involved. But sure. I'm accomplished. I'm proud. I've earned a gold star.
Doing this now, I guess. For those of you unfamiliar with me, I'm Dirk Strider. For those of you who are familiar with me, my condolences. I imagine there's a nonzero chance you've already heard more than enough about the particular brand of bullshit I bring to the table, whether through personal experience or some secondhand account of my exploits, the credibility of which I'm not especially inclined to dispute. Going to use this shitty insecure website to serve as my repository for film reviews. Maybe some photography, whatever digitally manipulated garbage I can cobble together. he reviews will be subjective, which is a pretty important distinction to establish upfront, because I have a demonstrably fucked relationship with the concept of quality. I'm fully capable of recognizing when something is objectively terrible. I just won't let that stop me from finding the movie interesting. THE MASTER OF DISGUISE (2002). Holy shit. For the uninitiated, this is a motion picture in which Dana Carvey plays a man named Pistachio Disguisey, heir to an ancient lineage of disguise practitioners, who must harness his hereditary powers of impersonation to rescue his kidnapped parents. This is a character in fiction I find myself relating to. I also have a namesake for things I enjoy doing. That being blades and walking, ergo, Dirk Strider. That's the premise. I'm not omitting some crucial narrative goodness. That's the actual narrative framework somebody sat down, typed into a screenplay, and successfully convinced a production company to fund. It's 80 minutes long if you include the credits. Somehow it gives the impression of a film that has been running continuously for centuries. The crown jewel of this cinematic turd is the Turtle Club sequence, in which Carvey disguises himself as a turtle by putting on an oversized green shell, wearing a bald cap, and repeating the iconic phrase "Am I not turtley enough for the Turtle Club?" A reasonable person might assume that this joke has some sort of payoff. That the repetition is establishing a premise which will eventually be subverted, elaborated upon, or otherwise justified by the machinery of comedy. That's the entire joke. He's a turtle, he's attempting to join a club based on how turtley he is. I have spent an unreasonable amount of time considering the philosophical implications of this sequence. Specifically, whether a joke can become funny through sheer repetition, or whether the act of repeating something devoid of comedic merit eventually constitutes its own distinct genre of humor. The answer is yes. Somewhere around the fourth repetition, I actually laughed. I fucking love it. Did you know that in the timeline this movie was made in, Carvey was in the turtle suit during the tragedy of 9/11? The movie is a disaster. The pacing is fucked. The protagonist behaves like somebody attempting to approximate human interaction from a corrupted instructional video. The entire supporting cast feels like they are under duress. The production has the aesthetic coherence of a children's birthday party. It's magnificent. You have to respect that. Or you don't. Frankly, you probably shouldn't. FINAL RATING: 2/10 AS A FILM. 9/10 AS AN ARTIFACT OF HUMAN CIVILIZATION. I recommend it to anyone interested in studying catastrophic misjudgments of humor. Anyway. That's the sort of shit you can expect here. Movies, photography, some aggressively unnecessary image editing, and the occasional thought experiment that probably should've remained a private thought. Welcome aboard. Oh, and tags. #CW-911 #CW-Terrorism #Violence #Death #Tragedy #EdgyHumor #Tragedy #MasterOfDisguise