War Crimes

Article: Desecration of the dead is as old as war itself

Four Marines got in trouble for urinating on some dead Taliban soldiers. I understand that when you’re sent somewhere for the sole purpose of killing people, it’s probably hard to turn off the “kill” switch in dudes’ brains. I mean, a lot of these guys go to war as trained killers and then come back to be efficient work place shooters.

The dead Taliban are lucky… I’m sure there are guys that would pay a lot of money to have three Marines urinate on them.

The above article gives an idea as to what this blog is about: (Gooch, you ask, you mean uriphilia?) No… I mean corpse desecration. Like everything in the news, I’ve experienced the subject matter first hand. I present to you an essay:

******

I wasn’t even born yet, but that didn’t stop me from forging a birth certificate and enlisting in the Army. The year was 1968 and I belonged to one of the first battalions deployed to the conflict in Vietnam.

Much like in today’s wars, there is a lot of one on one combat. It’s different than the anonymity of killing someone with a bomb or a grenade from a distance. Killing someone while you stare into their eyes is something you carry with you for the rest of your life. It fucks with your head. You have to reach into the darkest place in your soul and realize it’s either you or him that’s going to die in that moment. You have to dehumanize the enemy. It’s really, really depressing.

Fortunately we made light of the whole thing by desecrating the bodies of our enemies. Much like today’s military, we had the time of our lives urinating on corpses and staging puppet shows with dismembered enemy heads. I wonder if they still use fishing line to move the mouths?

In all fairness… we were pragmatists. Sure we desecrated the bodies but we found practical uses for the corpses. For example, when we ran out of Q-tips, we would cut off a pinky of the deceased and use that to clean out our ears. The Vietnamese didn’t use nail clippers, so a single dismembered hand provided five regular head screwdrivers in different sizes. Fingers with tougher nails were used to open care packages.

One time, I made a floating party barge out of 20 enemy corpses I’d strung together with wire and twine. We used the open mouths to hold our cans of Budweiser .

Like many American soldiers in Vietnam, I would cut off ears of those I killed and make a necklace out of them. If I got lonely, I would take one of the ears and set it on the pillow next to me while I lay in bed and tell it all of my problems. Sometimes I would loan my ears to my brothers in arms if they needed someone to talk to. This is where the phrase “lend me your ear” comes from. True story.

One time, one of my Sergeants seemed depressed. I offered him one of the ears from my necklace and he said “what I really need is a shoulder to cry on.”

“Hell…” I said, as i loaded my M-16, “I can have one here in about 15 minutes.”

goochout

Mr. Saturday Morning.

I would die for my Nillas. It's okay... I said "Nillas." It's not like I said "Nillers." That would be offensive.

I’ve come across a few terms that I should have known about sooner but I’m clearly late to the party on these.

GFE: Girl Friend Experience. This is when a prostitute treats her client like a girlfriend. This usually, according to various sources, involves condomless sex, blow jobs, cuddling, and sleeping in with the client.

I find great irony in this as a lot of husbands and boyfriends probably long for the “DWE” experience: Dirty Whore Experience. I imagine this as being sex, no talking, then leaving immediately afterwards:

Gallant: Hey, Goofus. My wife did the greatest thing in bed last night:

Goofus: What was it? Did she stick a finger in your ass?

Gallant: What? No… Jesus Christ dude, where did that come from?

Goofus: Never mind… what then?

Gallant: She left.

Goofus: She left?

Gallant: Yes.I got the DWE! We had sex and then afterwards she got up, got dressed, took some money out of my wallet while I pretended to sleep and then she fucking left the house.

Goofus: Dude… that’s hot. What did you do then?

Gallant: I watched Family Guy reruns and jerked off until I fell asleep.

Goofus: When’s she coming back?

Gallant: Hopefully in time to make dinner. I… I don’t know how to work the Crock Pot.

Not my work... but nicely done.

Another term I’ve heard for years but never knew the definition. From Urban Dictionary:

Superman: When you are mad at your wife or girlfriend for not having sex with you. So when she falls asleep you masturbate and ejaculate on her back. After that, stick the bedsheet on to her back and when she wakes up it’s stuck to the ejaculate and she is, in effect, wearing a cape (like Superman).

A flared up case of Thursdays.

I work on computers for a living. That’s my thing. Obviously, I’m a whore that likes to quickly turn around jobs in exchange for quick cash. I mean, customer service and return business is very important, but in the end I need perpetual funding to keep the highly processed food stocked in my cabinets.

So now, a couple of jobs that I’ve charged about a hunsky (that’s douchanese for $100) are going to take more time and therefore my income per hour on each of these jobs will decrease dramatically. I won’t charge more (although I suppose I’m entitled to) for the sake of customer happiness. And, well… I just got bored with this. Sounds like an edition of “White People Problems.”

You see the “Ryan Seacrest” tweet? I’ve vowed to tweet at least one timely relevant joke a day (starting today). Even if it’s cheap, like any “small/tiny/gay Ryan Seacrest” joke usually is. Hey, I’ll take what I can get.

Salaam,

goochout

Case of the Mondays

It’s like a Rorschach test: You’re supposed to see an empowered woman reading a book - a contrast to the exxagerated proportioned (and more familiar) “mudflap girl.” I, however, see a girl who inexplicably fell down while reading a cook book.

I like domesticity.  I mean, life before the fiancee living here was leftovers (somehow I only had leftovers in my refrigerator. I never had a fresh cooked meal in my home) and cartoons. I used to go home and immediately lay on the couch, eat cold leftover Chinese, and watch Family Guy reruns on Netflix until I fell asleep.

Now there’s more responsibility. Decorating and undecorating for Christmas took a fair amount of time. Multi ingredient meals for two take more time to prepare than minute rice (which somehow takes me five or six minutes to make). The Fiancee’s dog is now partly my responsibility now. He relaxes me. I pick up his shit during walks and he makes me a mellower person somehow. Fair trade? Maybe. I was told that looking into a dog’s eyes is somehow supposed to be therapeutic and soothing. I look into the dog’s eyes and can’t help but wonder if he’s going to puke on the carpet again.

I have to go to work. Later.

gooch

 

 

Happy New Year/State of the Gooch

About all the HTML I remember since I quit giving a shit in 2002.

Despite the lack of updates my readership hasn’t appeared to wane. Hopefully the vast archives are enriching your work experience. I mean, perpetually postponing pending appointments by dragging appointments across the Outlook calendar in weekday mode is fun, but not as fun as this. In the airsickness that is my brain, this site is the little bag tucked between the Skymall catalog and your empty peanut wrapper.

First off: I’m engaged. To be married. Yes, I’ve taken the plunge and decided to disappoint one woman for the rest of her life. I don’t like to delve into anything that you people call “feelings” or “emotions,” but she and I have too much fun together for me to let her get away.

I bought the ring and proposed on Christmas morning. Because cliche is a pool in which I tread water. I bought the ring at a jewelry store (as opposed to my first choices which involved pawn shops and neighborhood crack dealers) and noted that there was an enormous poster of Leonardo DiCaprio in the store. I mean, the star of “Blood Diamond” in your diamond store? It turns out the store I went to only sold blood diamonds and the ring box even included a picture of the 8 year old amputee that mined my beloved’s stone.

In other news, I’ve put on weight since we started dating. My wardrobe selection has shrunk to about three shirts (the oversized corduroy shirt/jacket remains the fat man’s best friend. That and air conditioning in January). Also, I’m starting soccer in a week from today. I’m desperately getting my treadmill time in; trying to eradicate six months of sedentary living in one week of jogging in place. I should sell tickets to my first soccer match; watching my fat exertion will be like a cross between watching the Hindenburg and the 9/11 videos. Except way more hilarious.

Peace, and Happy New Year,

gooch

FlashBack at the 11:11

 

The last article I wrote for Portland music magazine “Jam Magazine.” I came across this while Googling myself. Jam was a local independent music magazine that somehow failed despite having some 15 unpaid volunteers. As I reflect on Jam, I think every aspect of that publication was fueled strictly by ego. The publisher, Kyle Mangino who goes by “Dino” now, notes of his achievements that he “owned and operated a successful regional music magazine called Jam Magazine: Northwest Music, Arts and Culture…”

Also: “Nonprofessionally, I am a 1-on-1 coach in relationship building and development, with private clients I life coach on issues relating to meeting a potential partner, engaging that partner & developing relationship skills.”

He’s also divorced.

Anyways… Here’s the last thing that I wrote for the now defunct… I mean successful Jam Magazine.

If you’re literate: read this column
(If you’re illiterate, have someone read it to you)

I think Portland has more news helicopters per capita than any other city in the world. I used to make fun of the news choppers because there was such a race by the local affiliates to get their own helicopters first (one station here in Portland, KATU…The Power of Two on VHF channel 2 bought/leased TWO helicopters. Get it?… They’re on channel 2 and they have 2 helicopters! Oh the hijinks! (one chopper crashed shortly after its acquisition).

In the first column I wrote for the PSU Vanguard, I complained that these stupid helicopters were being used for stupid reasons… LIVE coverage of a cigarette billboard. Like it’s going to take off before a news van can get there. At the end of that column I was begging someone to start a high speed chase just so I could watch it on TV.

On Wednesday, January 17th, a high-speed LA styled chase ensued in Portland. A high speed chase led by someone with an assault rifle. A high-speed chase complete with civilians trying to slow the driver down and three big-rigs forming a ‘V’ to ultimately stop the chase.

So where was the news choppers? I’m waiting for the news to come on and when it does, no aerial footage. Portland has (my count) like five or six television news choppers. Not one could get in the air? Portland television news is 75% self-promotion, 20% rebroadcast of national news, and 5% crap.

******

From Gooch: The Column posted on www.goochonline.com November 26, 2001: Remember to be safe this holiday season… stay within your budget, under the legal blood alcohol limit, and the fuck off the airlines.

From CNN.com posted December 27, 2001: Officials say Richard Reid hid 10 ounces of PETN-based material, a version of the plastic explosive C4 that is very sensitive to heat and friction, in each of his shoes when he boarded Flight 63 in Paris on December 22.

If you’re literate, please read the next paragraph. If you’re illiterate, have someone read it to you: WE ARE UNDER A-FUCKING-TTACK! Jesus. I am 100% for going about our lives in a normal fashion in the wake of 9/11. I believe in going to work, going home, watching television, spending time with family, downloading porn, and going to sleep. I think that people who have gone about their lives in the usual manner are courageous themselves. But why get on a plane? For work? That’s why God created conference calling and PC Anywhere. Air travel has always been risky, but even more so now.

It’s not rocket science in figuring out that these guys know our biggest weak spot: the airline industry. Things are supposed to be getting better in terms of air travel but even the new aviation security law slated to take effect in 2002 doesn’t necessarily require that airport security prospects have a high school diploma. Rather, the law gives discretion to the Transportation Department to allow for someone with work experience to become employed as an airport security screener.

Well, fucking great. Someone who didn’t have the ambition to sit in a classroom from 8:15am to 3:15pm five days a week is now qualified to protect us from the forces of evil? I’m not getting on a plane until Chuck Norris and the entire goddamned Delta Force is checking bags.

******

Didn’t get the computer game or the Palm software, or the CD that you wanted for the holidays this year? Steal that copy of Flash 5.0 or Mariah Carey’s Glitter CD by using Morpheus, my new favorite file sharing application available from www.musiccity.com.

******

Read the following two independently written passages. Do you think that rock stars lead pretty predictable lives?

Excerpt from Gooch: The Column published in August 2001:
The stories on “Behind the Music” tend to be formulaic at times. Typically a nobody band gets a break, becomes famous, one of the members overdoses/crashes a car/gets arrested/all of the above, the band produces a #1 ballad/hits the mainstream, breaks up at the peak of their stardom, reunites ten years later, and is currently working on a project that you will likely never hear about again.

Excerpt from The Oregonian published Saturday, January 5, 2002:
[Regarding VH1's Behind the Music] Each episode follows a distinct narrative arc: Young dreamers form band; band struggles’ band succeeds; sex/drugs/alcohol-fueled dissipation ensues; failure and/or breakup results; wake-up call occurs; bad habits are cast aside; band re-forms/revives/cuts new album/returns to charts.

******

Predictions for 2002:

I predict that Willamette Week will publish a special issue featuring photo ideas and CD reviews that they ripped off from other magazines/websites.

I predict that the Mercury will rip-off Willamette Week’s idea to publish the above special issue.

I predict that the Oregonian will try to sell ads inside the Fry’s Electronics inserts after discovering that the Fry’s ads are the most interesting part of the daily.

******

And now that I’ve severed all ties between myself and any publication in Portland that might pay me to write, it’s time for the Jam good-bye:

I’ve gained a lot from my time at Jam Magazine. Like fifty-fucking pounds. Also, I’ve made a lot of great friends in the local writing and music industry. I’ve gone from being oblivious to the music scene in general, to actually participating in it through publicity work or even appearing on stage operating lights for a band.

I do hope that another local music ‘zine emerges. There’s a lot of great CDs and band stories in the local scene that are so painfully ignored by the mainstream press.

I’m kind of like herpes when it comes to the local music scene. Actually, herpes is like herpes when it comes to the local music scene. However in a figurative sense, I’ll likely always be in the background and I’ll pop up when you least expect it. I wouldn’t be here without Jam Magazine and I want to thank everyone at Jam for the great experience.

Later.
Gooch.

Hanging dreidels from my Christmas tree. With care.

Watching Dexter and I came across a scene where a drunk guy wakes up in car in Miami after a drunken night.I’ve done that. I’ve had that exact same Sunday morning.

But times have changed. I can’t remember my last hangover. I have a girlfriend and a real tree in my house for the first time in a long time. I spent this entire year paying the debts (figuratively and literally) incurred during 2010.

Jumping around… last night my girlfriend handed me one of MANY star wars decorations as we decorated the tree. It was a Jar Jar Binks ornament. “We don’t acknowledge Episodes 1 to 3 in this house,” I explained as I placed that and other ornaments of the same SW era back into their protective cases.

Speaking of Dexter: So now every series on cable has to have scenes in phychiatrists’ offices?

Speaking of Star Wars as an allegory for white guilt: A movie made by a white guy where the most powerful person in the galaxy is a large black figure who looks like an enormous black penis from behind and bosses around a bunch of white guys. White guys… who all look alike.

I’m about to enter into a significant relationship that will affect my life in the distant future. “Gooch,” you ask, “Is that the girlfriend you mentioned earlier?

No. It’s an iPhone. I’ve sweated the details of this transaction for the last two months. I’ve pored over the details of what such a transition will do to my life. I went from Windows to Palm/HP Web OS to Android and now, possibly, to Apple. Apple: The Dark Overload of brightness.  I’ve crunched the numbers… this is a purchase driven almost entirely by the accessories that I can accompany it with. I already have an iPod iHome alarm clock. I have iPod-y shit all throughout the house.

Back to watching Dexter.

goochout.

Like this guy’s life isn’t bad enough.

First off: Mad props to www.pdxmugshots.com and www.thepotshot.com for not only bringing local mug shots to the web in an easy-to-access fashion, but for also daring to make fun of them. I would never dare to compete with anyone who has blazed the trail for such a great facet of web mockery.

Having said that…

Look at the size of that fucking head.

The obvious (read: cheap and easy) comparison to be drawn is this:

Regular readers of this site have come to expect that I’d post a picture or two of a slut (them) followed by the rantings of a slut (me).  However I’m always trolling the pdxmugshots.com to make sure I didn’t relapse into an alcoholic stupor over a weekend and come out of the blackout well into my work week to find out I have to be in court due to a weekend indiscretion that I don’t remember. I mean, who hasn’t gone out on a Friday and then the next thing you know it’s Wednesday and you’re at work and you’ve got a summons taped to your computer monitor? Am I right?

This guy doesn’t look drunk. He looks like he’s about to use his brain to implode the mug shot camera and melt the fucking face off his arresting officer. In fact right after this picture was taken, the lights went out and the electrical outlets/light fixtures exploded. It was exactly like the police station scene in Terminator (1984) except Sarah Connor would have died. But the Black cop would have lived. Because everyone loves Paul Winfield.

It’s not clear what he was charged with, but with a head/brain that big it’s likely that he’s a diabolical supervillain with the mental power and desire to kill Superman and Bat Man and all of the X-Men while bringing a thousand years of chaos and darkness to planet Earth.

Or he’s a shoplifter. Who knows?

Gooch:Out

From the Book of Gooch 2:51

Suck it. I needed to beat 2’55″ and I made it with 2’51 and change. I’m not saying I played it for a long time, but when did the leaves start changing?

And at the 11:11…

Here's one way to not lose your car in the parking lot.

First off: I’m a shitty driver. I’m responsible for plenty of vehicular carnage. I’m one of those guys that still bitches about the price of gas when I’m not bitching about the weather. My car and I have been through a lot together. Most notably, a barb wire fence and a parking garage post. Oh, and a car port post. Meanwhile, I still love to drive. I drive 2000 miles a month. My Ford has 190,000 miles on it.

I’m not a fan of modern day video games, preferring the older arcade style of gaming. You know, games that don’t require 20 hours of play to get to level 2 and don’t refuckingquire a 20Mb internet connection. Like Frogger and shit. I do have a Playstation 3 and I use it primarily as a Blu Ray player and media streaming client so I can watch pirated shit without burning a DVD. Sustainable!

The girlfriend and I like competitive head-to-head racing games at arcades. I bought Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit at the hopes of split screen racing excitement for the evening. Turns out, split screen gaming has gone away and replaced by faster frame rates and LAN/WAN gaming. I’d have to buy another copy of the game and have her play me on the PS3 upstairs while I play downstairs.

Gay.

So while she does homework on the couch and wishes that I would give her a chance to play once in a while… I obsess over this game. You know what I was doing last night (and this morning)? Trying to pass this course in under 2’55″:

The game is Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit and this is what I’ve spent a bulk of time on recently. My television is mounted high on the wall and I stand in front of it like an arcade game and, holding the controller, navigate these ficitious courses through a ficticious county (Seacrest County… kinda gay).

Anyways, I can’t pass this level and obviously this dude can. I’m going to make an audio recording of myself giving a play by play and try to mimick the line this guy did… (“stay in left lane… drift through rock tunnel shortcut… nitrous… stay in left lane… cut right through shortcut… nitrous… spike strip…).

Sick. I’ve played this game so much now that it has affected my real life driving. I started going up a hill and I pushed my right thumb down onto a phantom PS3 “X” button for nitrous. Stupid… I took the nitrous system out of my 2001 Ford Escape months ago.

I:suck

gooch:out