[click to enlarge : now there's a pun]

Dildos are awesome. That’s a universal fact. You disagree? Well, fuck you! I have thousands upon thousands of years of humans who think dildos are the Bee’s Knees, the Cat’s Pajamas, and other cool stuff.

Boom:

via livescience:

The carved bone was unearthed at a Mesolithic site in Motala, Sweden, that is rich with ancient artifacts from between 4,000 to 6,000 B.C. The area’s unique features may have allowed bone artifacts, which usually get destroyed over the millennia, to survive.

“It’s an organic object, that’s why it’s special,” Gruber told LiveScience. “Normally when we excavate early Mesolithic sites we never get the organic material. But this site where we’re excavating now is along the shoreline. The preservation is very good here – it’s been lying in the bottom sediments and clay layers of the river, and it’s been well preserved there.”

The dildo-like object is about 4 inches (10.5 cm) long and 0.8 inches (2 cm) in diameter.

It’s not the first time that such a phallic object has been found from the ancient world. Another item strongly resembling a penis was unearthed in Germany in 2005. That one is even older – dating from 28,000 years ago – and made of stone.

As I tumble towards the certainty that I am going to amount to nothing, I’ve come to a new conclusion. I’m going to begin crafting dildos out of melted down Nintendo Entertainment System cartridges, and hiding them. So, god willing, in four to five-thousand years, someone can dig up my dildo. This is my new (hopefully) attainable goal.

One of the two highlights of my descent into the Great American Yokel last week was finding these beauties at a local Walmart. For just $5, less than a twelve-pack here, I could buy a 24-can cube of Diet Mountain Dew destruction. Amazed at the sight, and drinking away my woes, I simply had to buy two.

This weekend I was thinking about dying, and the ridiculousness of contemplating non-existence. Somehow I got to thinking about what will happen when I eventually have hellspawn and they come to me seeking answers.

“Daddy” they’ll say, as I’m shoveling dirt on to the corpse of one of my parents. I ain’t buying no coffin, that shit is a racket.

“Daddy” they’ll inquire again, “Where is Nana gone to?”

And I’ll just keep heaping the dirt onto the body, trying to ignore them.

“Daddy?”, “Daddy!”, Daddy?!” they’ll keep pestering me.

“What happen? Where Papa now?”

And I’ll have to look them deep in the eyes and tell them them the truth:

“I HAVE NO IDEA. Now stop bugging me and grab a fucking shovel! There’s flies!”

Pepsibones was living the high life last week in Las Vegas, and I myself am just returning for the pitfalls of Cowville, where Mrs. Caffeine Power originates from. Hereby declaring the last few days a loss, I apologize to the two people who read this site. Starting tomorrow, everything is back on track. Sporadic, ill-timed track, just like the good ole days.

I attempted to post this note while in Cowville, but I found myself without means. There was no computer, no wireless access, and my iPhone spent four days searching futilely for a 3G connection. Balls.

Welcome back to the suck.

My parents are getting to that age when technology has begun to defeat them. When considering the ever-expansive technological world we live in, it’s depressingly portentous of what may be the shape of things to come. The question I ask to myself is “Since I have been submerged in the world of technology since a little kid, will it be mandatory and given that I keep up?” or “Is technological defeat inevitable for everyone past a certain age [for the most part] and given how densely seated in technology we are, my generation will eventually be even more lost?”

I’m not sure.

What I do know is that I’ve heard the beeping of them trying to program their GPS for twenty minutes, a silent heartbeat of futility repeating from upstairs.

It’s gorgeous out here in Massachusetts. Sometimes, you just gotta drop back and say “What a wonderful day to be alive.” Nothing makes everything seem okay like weathering another dismal winter, and a Spring of flooding that made my room smell like my feet. Mrs. Caffeine Powered and I were grilling a couple of nights ago; okay, she grills and I just run around grabbing plates and setting tables, and I was so thrilled with existence at the moment I took these pictures. It’s amazing how happy sunshine can make the average human being.

I’m telling you man, we all secretly want to be down at the local watering hole, after having chased down some wild animal, eaten, and had sex. For all of our new fangled inventions and creations, I can’t think of anything that makes me as happy as a pretty day, an evening with friends, or the Mrs. And if you combine the lot of them, you have a wunderday.

It’s been a busy five months of blogging LOST, and so tonight I’m treating myself to a Slurpee and a FAMILY SIZE bag of skittles. Yeah dude, I’m living it up! I remember when I, in a moment of caffeine madness, decided that I would post something about LOST everyday for a month leading up to the beginning of the final season. It seemed like such a good idea at the time, and then by day fifteen I was all “Fucking Hell, Drinkwater, what have you gotten yourself into?”

But it’s been a surreal, exhausting, and really, really rewarding trip. There was a pants-filling moment somewhere during the middle of “Remember That Time On LOST When?” that I realized that people were actually reading the bullshit I was churning out into a WordPress document. Like, people expected and actually enjoyed what I wrote every Wednesday. I’ve blathered to Pepsibones and myself for years, but the idea that people were actively engaging in what I wrote was pretty thrilling.

Nothing was more exciting than seeing people post in the comments, even if it was to disagree with me.

I can’t even begin to fathom the amount of hours, hundreds of pictures, and thousands upon thousands of words I’ve gone through chronicling LOST. And really, it’s sort of trippy that not only the journey of LOST is over, but so is this really enormous undertaking that I’ve been carrying for all of 2010. I’m almost sort of bummed that OL didn’t exist earlier, so we could have done this all together for a much longer time.

Every entry was made possible by absolutely, positively, ridiculous amounts of caffeine, the ability to ignore hundreds of pages of grad work I had to do, and the encouragement of an assload of friends, particularly Tommy Rock, who shared my insane passion for the show. Even our darkest moments of abject hate were spurned by what was really an unhealthy love for the potential and highest moments of the show.

In the end though, this is just a formal “Thank You” and “You’re Awesome” to everyone who has read, commented, and shared my LOST recaps with others. As insane as the pressure of having to deliver recaps every Wednesday was, the support and enthusiasm from people who have come across it has more than made up for it. So big ups, and high-fives to all of you who have accompanied me on Oceanic Omega for this redonkulous expedition.

It’s been radical thanks to all of you.

[I came across this awesomeness one night via the Facebook of a friend of OL.  Cheers, dude.]

I love Sam Rockwell. I love Sam Rockwell even more after watching what can only be titled the “Sam Rockwell jive” spread across three videos. I had no idea the mean rug he cut in Iron Man 2 was something of a specialty of his. I’ve posted my favorite below, but go here to check them all out.

It’s fucking 10:40 on a Thursday night. And I’m feeling relieved for the first time this week? Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I just finished outlining the second half of my first of two final papers this semester. What a sad fucking state I’m in, no?

I actually don’t mind it. It’s just amazing, I’ll put my head down to outline something, and the next thing I know, there’s a wasteland of pens and soda cans and novels strewn about.

It’s this madness that is responsible for a lack of updates lately from me on the most Omega of Levels. Classes finish next week, the first paper (which I have gleefully half-written, completely outlined) is due a week from tomorrow. And then I have until the 20th to churn out the last paper.

It’s cool.

Right?

Sure!

When I met Type O Negative and Peter Steele I was a fat, confused, sixteen year-old. I was beginning to realize that my parents were as fucked up as me, the path of glory led to nowhere but the grave, and rot awaited all of us. In other words, the dude spoke to me. A penchant for the melancholic, his discussions of life and death and fragility and infidelity made a real lot of sense.

Over the years I haven’t listened to them as much as I used to. Mr. Steele and his lamentations have faded into the background of my mind. Steele, much like what used to be my incessant obsession with my own mortality, floated to the forefront every few years only to drift away.

It seems fitting then, in a year that has had me caring for a withering grandmother and once again uncomfortably aware of my own impermanence that Peter Steele would pass away.

Oh, you would do that.

One of my most magical concert moments ever took place at a Type O Negative concert. I must have been a junior in high school, and I went to the show with a pack of friends. During the bridge to Love You To Death, Steele polished off the bottle of wine he had been drinking the entire time and gunned it into the crowd. He then told us to give ourselves a hand, and the quiet bridge accompanied the sound of applause. I don’t know why it’s stuck with me throughout the decade-plus that’s passed, but I’ve always recalled it fondly.

Maybe the thing I enjoyed so much about Type O Negative was their ability to turn the morbid into the beautiful. Their songs about death weren’t nearly as depressing as they were pretty. Steele somehow managed to capture the gorgeous decay of existence.

Steele passed away this week. So it goes.