This test almost ranks up there with the “Are you Ashley or Mary Kate Olsen?” quiz. Almost.

The wretched King Minos has decided your fate. His tale wraps around his body 5 times.
The sweet light no longer strikes against your eyes. Your shade has been banished to… the Fifth Level of Hell!

Fifth Level of Hell

The river Styx runs through this level of Hell, and in it are punished the wrathful and the gloomy. The former are forever lashing out at each other in anger, furious and naked, tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth. The latter are gurgling in the black mud, slothful and sullen, withdrawn from the world. Their lamentations bubble to the surface as they try to repeat a doleful hymn, though with unbroken words they cannot say it. Because you lived a cruel, vindictive and hateful life, you meet your fate in the Styx.

Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test

I honestly didn’t know hell was such an interesting place. Apparently it’s got multiple levels and arenas. Luckily, since I’m only a mediocre sinner, I get on the 5th level, which has a view of the River Styx! The downside is that I have to hang out with naked gothy-emo kids slithering around in mud. Oh well, you get lemons, you make lemonade.

Watched Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch’s War on Journalism last night.
It’s pretty interesting.

Everybody knows Fox News is biased towards the right. OUTFOXED pretty much just shows examples of their extreme slant (not that you need it, go turn on your tv…) and why they get away with calling it news. [foxmemo.jpg]

It wouldn’t be a big deal except for the fact that we’ve got an idiot running for president again and any “news” you get on Fox is going to be cut to fit for him. It’s just not something that should be considered informative in any way. And sadly, I think there’s a lot of people who still watch that channel every once and a while thinking they’re getting something from it. Other than a healthy dose of propaganda. I’ll be deleting it from my TV now…

Google never lets me down on lonely Saturday nights.

I have found that there are David Copperfield fans and they have a message board. Apparently some of the people are borderline stalkers. Why they chose David Copperfield to obsess over, I’m not sure. But hey, whatever floats your boat.

Topics include:

  • how often David Copperfield showers
  • what David Copperfield smells like, if anything
  • what a David Copperfield fragrance would smell like

  • Good luck with that one, DC.


    July 24, 2004

    I’m watching the Tour De France on OLN and a commercial comes on for some medication called Levitra. The commercial features a woman lying around trying to hint that her husband can now get it up and slip her the meat without being too graphic. She doesn’t do a very good job. Anyway, after the slut gets done talking, there are, of course, the warnings. Don’t take it if you’re taking blood pressure medication, if you’re too old to have sex, etc


    And then:
    Contact your doctor or seek emergency medical attention for any erection that lasts longer than 4 hours. A sustained erection can damage the penis.

    I’m trying to imagine this hypothetical situation. I am a man who desperately wants to make love to my (slutty) wife. I cannot, because I cannot get an erection. Life is cruel. I’m becoming frustrated and depressed and I often cry myself to sleep. But wait, what’s this? Levitra! I take the medicine and my penis is now hard. I last 30 seconds in bed because I haven’t had sex in a year, and now I want to fall asleep next to my cold tramp of a wife. I can’t fall asleep because I have a boner. Rather than dwell on the irony of the situation I roll over and wait. I wait 10 minutes, then 20, then 30. An hour. I stick it in an ice box, I take a cold shower, I think of John Madden nude, nothing works. It won’t go away. Now I read the fine print and discover that I could have permanent damage done to my penis if the erection doesn’t go away. I have to go to the doctor. What does one wear to the emergency room when they have an erection they can’t get rid of? You can’t wear jeans. Shorts are out. Maybe jogging pants? A Hari Krishna tunic? And does the woman at the desk call security when she sees you approaching with a tent pitched in your pants?

    All of this considered, I will be taking my vitamins tomorrow. That is all. Go, LANCE, GO!

    My other life

    July 23, 2004

    Today has been a productive day. I woke up, sat around, looked at some webpages and found a link to Real Lives, which I’ve been playing since. It says its an “educational real life simulator”. It basically shows you how good or bad your life could’ve been. Or could still be. Like the sims, I guess, but a lot cooler. Mainly because bad things happen to you. Take my life for example:

    I am born a girl in the city of Kharagpur in the state of West Bengal in India. My parents have named me Amaraja. My surname is Kabir. My mother, Ritu, is 23 and my father, Balik, is 22. I have a sister, Parimal, who is 4. My mother has hookworm and my father is a painter. It’s a good thing my parents are fucking worthless, because I now have stunted growth from inadequate protein consumption. Ah, the life of an Indian.

    At age 5 I am merely an expert in stunted growths. But my sister, the eternal suckup, has a job at age 9. I’m the only one in the family without a damn job. I however, am the only one who does not have hookworm! Suck on that Kabir family!

    At age 8, I ask if I can get a job since my sister has one. I am told I can’t get one, but that instead I should go out and play while I can. So, this I do. I am then hit by a car and suffer a spinal cord injury resulting in paralysis. I will never take advice from my parents again.

    I ask once again if I can get a job, because I’m now paralyzed and playing seems worthless. I am told no, I’m still too young, stubby, and paralyzed, so I should sit at home and enjoy my time. Ok, fine, I say, what else can happen? I’ll tell you what can happen – I can get epilepsy, which I now have.

    At age 11 I finally get hired to do “temporary odd jobs.” What this means, I don’t know, but I suspect I’ll be a prostitute soon if I’m not one already. Speaking of which, I am now wondering when I’m going to have this “samskara” I’m being told I’ll have. Apparently it’s a ceremony to “purify” hindu girls after their first menstruation. Sounds like a blast, and I wonder if there will be punch and cookies or a clown. That would be great.

    At this point in my life I’m hoping I’ll be killed by one of the many earthquakes India is currently enduring. My sister doesn’t have to worry about anything because her boyfriend Prem is going to school. I’m sure they’ll live a long, stunty life. I hate them.

    Hurray! I’m 13 years old and I’ve met a boy I’m quite fond of named Bhanu. I ask him if he wants to go out with me, and am rejected. Probably because I have epilepsy, stunting, and I’m paralyzed. Or maybe he just didn’t like my dress. I then set my eyes on another boy, and am rejected again. I hope this doesn’t become a theme.

    Meanwhile, my bitch of a sister isn’t going to be ok after all! Her boyfriend, Prem, has been diagnosed with tubercolisis. How’s it feel, fuckers, how’s it feel?!

    I apply for a job cleaning shoes but apparently I’m not skilled enough for that. After being turned down I find that Prem has died at age 22! I have a secret cerimony involving punch and cookies to celebrate.

    At 17 I decide to take up smoking. Why the hell not? Everybody’s doing it. Sides, I’m paralyzed. 4 rejections later I meet a runt of a boy named Jayashree Parthathy. He wants to go out with me. I must look hot when I smoke! I decide I’ll hold on to him since odds are if I don’t, I will be alone for the rest of my crappy life. I’m putting more emphasis into my physical appearance so he doesn’t ditch me.

    At 20 I ask Jayashree, or Jay-Jay as I call him, if he wants to get married. He says it’s too early. Hmm. I decide this calls for action. I mean, if Jay-Jay dumps me I’ll probably never find another man! But what will make him marry me? Of course…that age old trick. I immediately get pregnant. Now he’ll have no choice.

    It all goes to plan, and now Jay-Jay has proposed. He had better keep up the good shoe-making. I’m thinking of moving out with him soon.

    At 21, I finally pop that baby boy out. We name him Gobind. Or at least, I name him Gobind. This kind of sucks, because as much as I wanted to be married I don’t think I want to have a child. Mainly because we can barely feed ourselves. I wonder what baby tastes like?

    I decide to be independent since I’m going to be married with a child, and I move out to a one room house. I find out this costs me 19,000 ruppees each month, and then have to move to a “temporary shanty”. Thank god it doesn’t last long because we get married and Jay-Jay makes enough for us to move back into a one room house with meager food. Sadly, while living in my shanty I developed hookworm and have a loan I need to pay. Fate is a cruel mistress.

    I am now 25 years old.
    Holy shit! Jayashree has schizophrenia! God damn!
    Oh well, so long as he keeps working and doesn’t attack me with one of the few pointy objects we own, everything should be ok. As a matter of fact, he’s now working in a factory! Deluxe apartment in the sky, baby! Well, maybe not yet. But I’m still doing better than my sister, Parimal. That bitch.

    My son is old enough to go to school and so I figure we should move. Bareilly, Uttar Pradesh will be our new place of residence. Why did I pick Bareilly? Cause we can BAREILLY make it in Kharagpur! Bahahaha! My husband and son didn’t find it that funny, but what the hell.

    At 27 years old, in a new city, I still can’t find another damn job. I guess I’ll just remain content with my “temporary odd jobs”. I try to give up smoking, but it doesn’t work.

    Oh fate, how you haunt me. At age 30, crossing the street with my stumpy, paralyzed legs, I get hit by another car and die. Coincidence? Hell no! My husband has schizophrenia, I’m a paralyzed, epileptic smoker, and we live in a shithole. Goodbye, cruel world! I sure hope in my next life I’m not Indian.

    One drunken evening long ago, I was flipping through channels and I stumbled across a very frightening man. No, not Esteban. Another man. This man was telling me to do strange things. He was telling me to talk to closets and to scream things at the top of my lungs. All in the name of god. It was 2 AM.

    As you should know, in the south, we have many religious channels. Featured on these channels are crazy people. They are insane. This doesn’t matter, of course, because they love god. And loving god means you get to be insane, and you get to have your own TV show.

    So I found this clip I recorded a while back and figured I should share it. It is entitled “whatthefuck.avi” and I believe that sums it up. [whatthefuck.avi]