News: Experts Finally Catch Up to Everyone By Realizing Known Threats to Internet Freedom

A new report published by over 1400 analysts at the Pew Research Center states that there are four threats to freedom on the internet to keep an eye on: Nation-States filtering/blocking the internet, loss of trust from the government/corporation surveillance, businesses commercializing the worldwide web, and individuals filtering themselves will cause less information. People are now aware of not this information, but the fact that researchers have been behind the rest of the internet world.

“Seriously?” asks one user in a Reddit thread. “It took more than 1400 people to realize this? Jesus, it took me a day to understand this myself, and that was a month ago.” One researcher at Pew Research responded to this comment, saying “Well we’re sorry smarty-pants, but getting over 1400 researchers in one room is enough of a bitch to accomplish, and finding out whatever you found out a month ago to be plausible and make it sound professional is a pain in the ass. Once you get even a hundred people in a room, they all start becoming perfectionists and want a single word to be switched, which causes another word to be replaced. This cycle continues until you have an entirely different sentence! Imagine that but with 1400 little whiny researchers and analysts. We had democratic elections for what words to use, and then fucking recounts so everyone knows that ‘evaporate’ beat ‘dissolved.’”

Other research facilities around the United States are criticizing Pew Research for both taking away from the problem and bringing focus to the research center itself, and for giving researchers and analysts a bad name. “Net neutrality has been a problem for months now, and we’ve known about the government spying on us for over a year now,” says a researcher at Yale University, “so who do these assholes think they are when they say shit that we already know? They may think they’re gods shedding light on some big thing, but everyone thinks they’re fucking pricks.”

The research center is now being reviewed for standards in the research industry by multiple committees, and are currently in suspension for “lack of knowledge in the modern world” by the Research Association of America. Pew Researchers have stated “Unlike what you have heard, we are at peak efficiency, and there are more relevant research reports to come in the future.”

UPDATE: Pew Research Center did not meet any standards for Research Facilities, and is now shut down. This “will hopefully stop dragging the Americans down on the world research stage” says a spokesman for the Research Association of America.

The “Regretful Asshole” Cycle.

I’m an asshole as most of you know, but I’m aware of it and I regret it for a good ten minutes of the day. And I really do mean a good ten minutes of the day. It’s the regretful part of the “Regretful Asshole Cycle,” wherein an asshole does feel bad about being a dick for a short period of time before realizing he/she has every right to do so.

I’ve mentioned before that I go to this place where people think they know how to write, dance, act, play jazz music, draw, and build things better than any other student at any other school (you call it art school, I call it whatever I want). (Shit, there I go being an asshole again. Got to stop doing that.) Because of this, I get to be with these people who have talent in whatever they do, and are close to (but not at) my level of greatness. (Hey, I’m still an asshole. I can’t give them too much credit.) I’ll be honest, those people are so nice and grateful for being there and attempt their hardest at whatever it is they think they can get a job with later on in life. There’s no real reason for me to be such an asshole.

However, when I get home and go on the social networks, I start to think “Oh yeah, that’s why I hate these people.” This is the asshole part of the cycle. Yes folks, social networking (specifically Facebook) is the reason I become an asshole. I’m sorry, but if you decide to say stupid bullshit like “Oh, if you’re wondering why I had a deep voice than usual today it’s because I have a sore throat,” I am pretty certain I am legally allowed to think and say sarcastically “Wow, I had no fucking clue.” 

Here’s the best part: The cycle (done correctly) works. I can act nice to my friends in person, realize that I should change my ways, go online, and return to my normal state of mind. They think you’re a great person, but when they don’t see you, you can think whatever you want about their stupid shenanigans. It’s great until you don’t see any of those people for a long period of time (AKA: During summer vacation (AKA: Right now)) and remove the “Regretful” part from the equation, causing me to just become an average asshole. And this has been a process for over a year now, ever since I left middle school and (for still unknown reasons) kept people who I never really hung out with in my friend list. Now when a person that I met years ago and I never see in person sends an invite for “Kik on PC,” because apparently Facebook and Skype aren’t good enough for you, I have to fight the urge to message them in Facebook saying “Hey, I know we didn’t hang out that much, did I ever tell you to go fuck yourself?” They would hopefully respond with “No.” Then I could, with relative ease, respond with “Whoops, let me make up for it: Go fuck yourself.” (If they were to say ‘yes,’ then I would say “Well, let me reiterate: Go fuck yourself.”) Afterwards, I would start hoping that they don’t know where I live, and also hope that I will never see them again. Ever.

I don’t know guys, maybe the people I know will attempt to change me. It makes me joyful to know that they might fight a lost cause, mostly because I, for one, never join lost causes because I enjoy winning.

More to come.

The Wacky Adventures of JC.

This week’s adventure: JC did a 5k, crashed a urology convention, acted like an asshole to children, had his self-esteem raised and lowered within five seconds, and ate at an IHOP at 11 at night, all on the same day.

Yeah, that day was crazy. I never thought in my life that I would do each of these very different activities within a twenty four hour period. Don’t ask me why this happened, because I don’t know exactly how this happened, but I can explain what happened.

The 5k: It all started when I awoke at six. Usually, if I have to wake up earlier than seven or eight on a weekend, shit’s going down that day that I need to be “prepared” for, in this case some 5k I was told about the night before. This 5k was benefiting the ASPCA, and as such dog owners had a chance to do a mile dog walk with other dogs. This was exciting as every five feet you’d see a dog taking a shit on solid concrete even though the owner could so easily move the dog ten feet where there’s perfectly nice grass but because they’re so into talking about another owner’s dog they can’t fucking move their dog to where I can’t step in shit. So I did the 5k with no dogs allowed, finished, and left. Now, if the morning would end there, I would go home and take a shower, but no, I was far from that.

The Urology Convention: My father works at a hotel near this huge convention center and invited me, right after we did the 5k, to his workplace. I accepted, still sweaty and in workout clothes. Apparently, the American Urological Association was holding their annual conference at both the hotel and the convention center. So we arrive right at the ballroom area of the hotel, and there are a bunch of professional looking men and women drinking coffee with a fancy mug and a plate under it. Everyone had some sort of bag holding probably urine samples. So my dad leaves to his office and checks how long he needs to stay, and I’m just standing in the middle of suited people with basketball shorts and a plain white t-shirt. I pretty much looked like a tool. Of course, I’m not the one dealing with piss so fuck those smug ass urologists. I did get a chance to hear some of their urology science in work. Dirty stuff. Also I heard an out-of-context quote from some urologist stating “His penis is just getting smaller.” Dirtier stuff. My morning was over when we left.

The Asshole to Children Part: About eight hours later I was dressed up and partying at a parade and concert. This was at a theme park that still celebrates Mardi Gras until June 7 because profits and commercialism. Because of this late Mardi Gras party, I was able to collect beads, and boy did I get a shitload. Now, any sensible person who could see that some littler kids didn’t have as many beads as you would probably give some of those beads to those unfortunate souls. Bad news for those little fuckers: I hate little kids and I fucking earned the 50-something beads I got. So I begin to walk around, sporting the new look called “I might choke wearing these beads within the hour from the weight but the recognition and angry stares from the parents with little kids are totally worth it.” The look works, because a bunch of little kids looked at me with scorn.

The Self-Esteem: After the party/concert/celebration/complete let down of no breasts shown at a Mardi Gras party. (You will never see more sadness in a human being’s face than a teenage male who sees no tits during Mardi Gras. It beats the faces of cancer patients by a mile. Also, side note: Say what you want about it being at a theme park, it’s still Mardi Gras, okay? The theme park isn’t Disney, so not a whole lot of families are there. Less families = More allowance for boobs.) So I leave the park, still rocking the bead look, into the bustling nightlife that connects to the theme parks. As I walk, I accidentally bump into this cute girl who was conversing with her friend. She and her friend looked back as I apologize and she says, and I swear she said this, “You guys are hot.”

My sadness from no boobage quickly turned to glee from actually having recognition as “hot” from cute girls for once, unlike previous opinions from some people (cough cough, that girl from the 8th grade, cough cough). That lasted for a good two seconds before I understood the plural use of the word ‘guy,’ so I turn to my left to see a bunch of British dudes, and we’re gonna leave it at that as to explaining how better looking they were compared to me.

The IHOP: Now feeling disappointed from my false recognition, and because group members were hungry, we left and decided to eat at an IHOP at 11 at night. I’ll just say it: You will never see clinical depression at higher levels than at an IHOP near midnight (again, sorry cancer patients. You guys are a close second, though). It’s not a mixed group of people at IHOP at midnight, by the way. It’s instead either the fuck-ups like me who spend too much with their groups at the clubs and parks and need a bite to eat or the drugged-up fuck-ups who wake up at 10pm and say “Fuck it, I want pancakes!” before flipping a table in their house and driving their beaten down 87′ Cadillac to the nearest IHOP. So we ate, stayed away from anyone on the crack, and left full, tired, and upset at our choice of eatery.

I’ll be honest, I think that day proves that my life is better than my colleagues. Don’t complain about me stating that, by the way. I (hopefully) won’t see any of my classmates for another two months so I can say whatever the fuck I want about them without repercussion. So yeah, my life is good.

More to come.

What Having a Blog Has Taught Me About Myself.

Folks, today marks two complete years worth of blogging. To be honest, it completely boggles my mind how long it has been since I wrote my first blog post on Blogger. Now, on WordPress, I write such awful and horrifying things and people laugh and read it so it’s okay. And I will admit, once you make it to two years, you have probably gone on a wondrous and miraculous journey, learning what’s right and what’s wrong, creating interesting and thought-provoking content, and expanding as a writer.

On my journey, however, I have never created interesting or thought-provoking content, very slightly expanded as a writer, and did learn what’s right and wrong, but do the wrong thing because nothing’s interesting when you do something right.

So, I have some thoughts on what blogging has taught me over the years, and maybe you’ll learn something too. You won’t, by the way. (I learned wordplay too. See the word ‘maybe?’ Yeah. No promises, no cross my heart bullshit, just uncertainty.)

  1. I’m an asshole: No surprise there. I have every now and then questioned something I wrote and thought for a split second that it might be too “bad.” Of course, being the asshole I am, I don’t give a shit what you think and/or get offended by it.
  2. I write things that impact my real life: Not in a good way, by the way. Seriously, people think I actually act like this 24/7, instead of when it can and can’t be done. Along with that, the three females I’ve written about have not fucked me yet, so there’s that bullshit.
  3. I don’t take requests in a positive manner. If you ask for the treatment, you get the treatment.  No get out of jail free cards on my blog. For proof, see What One Female is Trying to Teach Me About Women and What Two Females in my 6th Period Class are Trying to Teach Me About Women.
  4. I’m never getting a job. If people look up my name, this is one of the first things to come up.I can imagine how awkward it would be to watch an employer look through my social networks to find this blog. Shit, if I don’t get into stand-up comedy and/or writing, I’m fucked.
  5. I’m a shitty writer. Let’s face it: I can barely write this stuff. I don’t even use voluminous vocabulary or ideological thoughts to challenge the form of this thing called humor. And this is nonfiction. My fiction is way worse than this. Want proof? Here’s a story:

    There was once a boy named Ted. He had an okay life. No one went to his funeral when he died.

    If you think that’s bad, here’s some news for you: I have two editors who both translate whatever bullshit I write. For fun, here are some unedited words that I typed. Editors, please do not edit the next sentence:“Hella. Totes ma gotes. 2k14 is 2 years bitches” 

    My editors luckily keep the swearing. Not all of it, but some of it.

  6. I have learned absolutely nothing. Excluding how to waste time in class and ignore one of my editors “singing” while I did her fucking biology homework. Other than that, there’s been nadda. Nothing about how to treat women correctly, nothing about electrical prices and internet prices, nothing about what my family thinks is morally right and wrong, nothing about blogging to a larger audience other than my own, and nothing about the pros of telling the truth and not writing bullshit like I did above this.

As you can tell, nothing has changed. Will it change? Will it become more interesting? Will JC find the error of his ways? Will JC stop making these stupid-ass questions? Will my editor return to edit my posts?

More to come.

I’m So Happy That My School’s Jazz Band Didn’t Win Their Competition.

I mentioned briefly in a blog post that my school, a school that tries to give birth to the arts just to have a miscarriage (AKA: An art school), was competing in a jazz competition called Essentially Ellington. And, fine readers of this blog, I am thrilled, ecstatic even, to announce that of the fifteen high school bands that played some jazz, my school did not get in the top three.

I’ll wait for you to stop cheering as I did when I heard the news.

Yes, it’s true. And yes, you have every right to be happy about these egotistical maniacs not placing in the top three.

“JC,” you might ask, “why are you so happy about this? It’s your school, shouldn’t you have some pride over your school and mourn the loss of your jazz band along with all the others and not give an unpopular opinion that’ll brand you as an asshole to your classmates?”

Well, I’m not completely happy that my band lost (Even though that is about half of my excitement), and I’m already an asshole in the eyes of my friends (And a chauvinistic pig to people who read my comedy articles in the school newspaper!), so I got nothing to lose, but I am happy about one thing: I knew from the beginning that they wouldn’t place in the top three, therefore making me right, and pretty much making everyone at my school wrong.

Let that ring in your ears, fellow classmates: I. Was. Right. And. You. Were. Wrong.

“JC,” you may now ask, “how could you have known you were right?” Well, there were some hints that gave the big surprise away.

Here was my thought process: Two of the competing bands literally had the word jazz in them, and, as I predicted, they both made it into the top three. Seriously, everyone should have seen that coming. Two out of the fifteen bands are gone, thirteen are left to get the last spot in the top three. Now it gets tricky on my part. My school had a 8% chance of placing in the top three now. But, being a realist, I got rid of any school without the word art in the name. Subtract ten from thirteen, each school remaining had a 33% chance now of placing with the jazz freaks. I lucked out and it wasn’t my school.

Now, even though I lucked out, one fact almost guaranteed that my school wouldn’t get in. On Wednesday’s, we put on a little thing called Recital, where you sit for an hour and realize that the dance department literally does the same exact fucking moves over and over again, but change it up by changing the music realize that the creative writers really do have a shitty reputation because of some writer going up and giving such a depressing poem continue to wait for the techies to “accidentally” drop either the curtain or a light fixture, depending on how much I think this act needs to stop sit in a theater and wait for the school day to end while people do things on the stage. At these recitals, the jazz band  frequently plays, but never gets a standing ovation. Not once. Only a few creative writers, the xylophonist, and the male dancers get standing ovations. (You want to know why male dancers get standing ovations? Because the majority of the student body are females, and they’re imagining themselves throwing one dollar bills at them.) Even though they never stood up and applauded when they were in person, they did give a standing ovation when we live streamed the jazz band playing music that they already played before at our school in NYC.

Hey, people at OCSA! Stop sucking each others dick (Or, for the majority female body, stop munching on each others cooch) and begin to realize your only proud of them getting there, not because of how they play! This school isn’t that good compared to the band that has the word jazz in it!

Also, I should mention that people are going crazy because our school lost, leading to one person to say something along the lines of “If the judges knew our band’s backstory, we would have placed.” Apparently, other schools don’t have backstories that can help them win. Of course, at the end of the day, our backstory wouldn’t have helped. What would have helped is if our jazz band actually played well.

More to come.

I’m an Art School Loser.

Yes, I am an art school loser. Of course, an art school loser is the equivalent to the regular high school popular kid, so that says something about where I’d be if I left this school. What’s the main difference between an art school loser and a regular school popular kid? It’s all about the situation and how others react.

I’ll give some examples:

Example 1: A group of friends during lunch are arguing over something stupid. The regular high school popular kid/art school loser is the voice of reason and talks the group into realizing their ideas and argument is dumb using sarcasm and humor to get a point across. How does the group react?

Regular high school (popular kid scenario): The group realizes their mistakes, make up, and they eat lunch together.
Art school (loser scenario): The group retaliate at him and fucking lie, saying shit like “We’re free-spirited and are having a real debate about blahblahblah, so get out of our business.” They don’t eat lunch with the voice of reason.

Example 2: The high school popular kid/art school loser is hanging out. Who is he hanging out with?

Regular high school: His acquaintances. He calls them acquaintances because they’re not cool enough to be completely friends yet.
Art school: His somewhat sane acquaintances. He calls them acquaintances because they’re not sane enough to be completely friends yet. Also because  the loser can’t have a real viable conversation with them.

Example 3: During a conversation with some acquaintances, the regular high school kid/art school loser brings up sports (let’s use football for this example). Does the group talk about it?

Regular high school: Yes. They talk like regular people about last night’s game and how crazy that one thing was.
Art school: No. The group members say that football “is a caveman-like activity that brings useless violence to America while branding it as a ‘sport.’” They go on to talk about how crazy it was that the only person from that art school to ever get onto American Idol lost because for some reason you don’t need to be at an art school to be a good vocalist. (In all fairness, she did get tenth place. Still eliminated, but still top ten. Of course, nobody gives a shit about tenth place, only first. Even then it doesn’t always work out.)

Example 4: A group of friends are smoking some marijuana. The regular high school kid/art school loser wants in. How do the pot folks greet the guy?

Regular high school: The group brings him in, gives him a joint, and gets to hear the popular kid’s crazy stories from the past.
Art school: The group rejects the nice gentleman a joint, stating “Us dancers don’t give charity to the low-life creative writers. Is that even a real major? Join a real program like band or something and then we’ll consider giving you some of this shit.”  (I should mention, the only real program is the tech program, therefore making the dance program, along with band, orchestra, visual arts, chorus, and, sadly, creative writing, a fake one, proving my point that all dancers are assholes.)

Example 5a: A female who the regular high school popular kid/art school loser wants a relationship with asks if she can touch his awe-inspiring hair. How does he respond, and what does she do?

Regular high school: “Yeah, sure.” She touches it.
Art school: “Yeah, sure.” She touches it.

Example 5b: A female who the regular high school popular kid/art school looser doesn’t want a relationship with ass if she can touch his awe-inspiring, Fabio-but-shorter hair. How does he respond, and what does she do?

Regular high school. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood.” She respectfully doesn’t touch the hair.
Art school: “Goddamn it, no! For the fifth time today the answer is still- get that damn- no- for the love of God-” She touches the hair anyway. The school becomes a crime scene ten seconds later.

Example 6: A female wants to know what shampoo/conditioner that the regular high school popular kid/art school loser uses. For the twentieth fucking time that year, what is he going to say:

All scenarios: “I’m not saying.” He flips his hair (you bet your ass a sassy hair flip) and walks the fuck away.

I don’t know about you guy’s, but I think I’d be pretty set for myself if I left this one-horse school and went to a real educational institution.

More to come.

My Friends in A School Group Are Beggars and Want Me To Support Them.

I’ve mentioned before that I have met many people on my travels throughout a high school campus. However, there are two main groups of people I have ever written about: My TSA Group and the “I’m gonna ask JC to write a post about me because it’ll be funny and I don’t think he will go too rough on me with his satirical, straightforward, sarcastic, and overall asshole-ish humor because we’re friends” group. This post is about the former.

The group needs to get to Washington D.C. for the National competition, and, sadly, my TSA group is poor as dirt. Apparently, the group was supposed to get funds from the school district or something and it didn’t come through because school district people suck and don’t get that at this school TSA is pretty much the only thing that anyone does outside of school. (Hey jazz band! I’m calling bullshit on your funding for this New York “Essentially Ellington Jazz Competition” thing! You’re the largest department, you should be the most financially sustained! If you need to, do a concert with an admission price, none of this “Let’s do a concert and not technically charge anyone for it but say we accept donations” gimmick where you’d think people would pay a little bit but then there’s asshole me and all my asshole friends who won’t give shit, sneak food and drink from our houses to a free concert so you won’t get jack from food/drink sales, and bring along all the assholes that respond to my Craigslist ad about a free jazz concert!) So,the people in TSA need your donations, and they thought I could help.

JC, what do I get out of it?

Well, reader that may or may not have this question, you get the satisfaction of helping a group of art school students actually get a chance at a career in a growing technological field other than some luck-of-the-draw acting, writing, band, or orchestral career. Dance is excluded because, if we’re all being serious here, there are little to no dance jobs anymore. Okay, other than jobs at dance studios teaching people how to dance, so they themselves can open up a dance studio. This cycle continues until eventually dancers either have a studio on every block of the world or realize there’s no job in dancing and get a real job like math teacher or Spiderman-masked robber. (It happened here in Florida recently. If you go on Google and search it, there are many results, all relatively recent. It’s a growing field.) You’ll also, if I go, get a bunch of blog posts (6 days worth!) of Washington D.C. jokes.

But what if you don’t go, but I still gave money?

First of all: No promises on whether or not I go. Second of all: If I don’t go, then I get someone who’s going to relay info to me, so then I can make fun of them in a rage of hate and sorrow because I’m not there. Third of all: Even if I don’t go, the other guys still will. So, you know, not all is lost.

Okay, I’m helping these people, what else could I do?

Share the GoFundMe page to friends, family, and people on the street or something. Just rub it in their faces.

I’m a musician and I don’t give two shits about TSA. How can I help the jazz band get to their competition?

Because you’re an asshole, I put in a link in one word of the second paragraph about their competition.

So, now that your hypothetical questions are answered, here’s a link to the page in which you can donate money: Be prepared to see a bunch of happy people and my eye creeping in the background.

Help them. Or don’t, who cares.

More to come.

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