Friday, April 29th, 6:56 P.M.
Ever since I got the rejection letter from Moenia Prima Community College, my parents have been bugging me about going out and getting a job. To this point I’ve blown them off. Today that changed. This change didn’t happen because I felt it was necessary. This change happened because my father felt it was necessary. Actually, my father told me it was necessary. My Dad sat me down and sternly said to me, “Hato, you’re going out there and you’re finding a job, because if you’re not working or going to school, you’re out of here. Do you understand that?” Yes, I did understand that.
I spent the afternoon looking through the want ads and filling out job applications. This was a completely enjoyable experience that was made all the better by my Dad being around and checking up on my progress every half minute. Really.
There is one part of this process that I find disturbing. More disturbing than my Dad getting angry, which he rarely does. When I filled out the application for the position of office assistant at Barrett Copeland and Reno, I was asked for my race. This wasn’t buried deep in questions like “What do you feel is your best quality?” This was the second question I was asked to answer, right after “What is your name?” Why the fuck was I asked this question? What kind of difference does my race make? Are you going to tell me that a verbrecher with the same educational experience as me can do a better job than me? No fucking way.
I know that employees can ask this question. I know that there’s no law that says they can’t ask me what my race is. My point is this: Just because you can do something, does that mean you should do something? I mean, just because I can fill my Hipster with pirated music, movies, and programs, does that mean that I should do it? Well, I already do pirate all of those things, but it’s wrong for me to do so, and I fully expect someday for consequences to come down upon me. That’s assuming anybody does find out that I’m a pirate, which they won’t, unless I’m too caviler and begin boasting about my mammoth music collection. By the way, I am now in possession of every Moral Threat song ever released, and some that haven’t been released.
Back to my point, in the time since I’ve submitted my applications I’ve received some replies. Four of them were not rejections, in fact those four want to interview me. Three of them are in the next two weeks, while the fourth is right after I graduate. The Postal Service job looks the most promising seeing as Sparra already works there. The Warrior Technological job is kind of a long shot, but I knew that when I applied. I’m already not looking forward to my interview at Barrett, Copeland, and Reno. I’ll probably keep the Mattison interview just in case the three before it fall through. I have no idea what Mattison is, I’ll look them up after I’m done with this entry.
Things are kind of looking up. Seems like things are on an upswing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find the new Dramatica CD online. Hopefully Dad won’t choose this particular half minute to look over my shoulder.
Thursday, March 24, 10:52 P.M.
I heard back from Moenia Prima today.
Dear Mr. Shurtleff,
It is out unfortunate duty to tell you…
This is strange. Not only have I gotten rejected by the three colleges I applied to, but I received the same letter from all three. Not similar letters, the same letter. The same letter, worded in the same way, using the same font, on what feels like the same paper. The only difference between these letters is the logo of the college and the school president who is writing to me.
Another strange thing is that all my friends also got rejected from all the colleges they applied to, and they also got the same rejection letter I did. Sparra’s rejection letters were especially odd because all three letters he received misspelled his name in the same way. I asked my cousin Robert, who goes to the high school across town, and he said he’s experienced the same thing. Not only has he received rejection letters for college but most of his friends have only received rejection letters. Among his friends, the only ones who’ve received acceptance letters are the two of his friends who are verbrechers.
I hope there isn’t something sinister going on. I try not to think that there’s something racial going on here, but my mind tends to circle around back to that point. I hope I’m proven wrong.
Friday, March 18th, 6:49 P.M.
I heard back from Vierdestad today.
Dear Mr. Shurtleff,
It is our unfortunate duty to tell you…
Damn it.Hato Shurtleff
Wednesday, March 16th, 2:40 P.M.
People at school started hearing back from the colleges the applied to today. Some people were disappointed with the replies they received. Some were pleased, not getting exactly what they wanted but at least something good. Others were nearly orgasmic. I wish I was kidding. There were loud screams of pure joy, people jumping around like a supercharged jumping bean, and even people hyperventilating to the point that they passed out. And that was among the men.
One of the people who received news today was Cam Sobe. This is the offensive lineman who is as big as a refrigerator, has a head the size of a cantaloupe that ate another cantaloupe, and who’s notable academic accomplishment is one term getting a report card that spelt the word “FACBIFF”, if in fact that is a word. Today Cam got word that he was accepted to Dolore University, an accomplishment he couldn’t put into words. Literally. He’s that fucking stupid.
This gave me hope for my application to Dolore University. I mean, if a fat dumb verbrecher like Cam can get it, surely I can, right? So, once school let out, I went straight home and checked the mail. Among the junk mail, credit card applications, bills, and lingerie catalogues Mom receives was a letter from Dolore University. I tore open the envelope and started reading the letter inside.
Dear Mr. Shurtleff
It is out unfortunate duty to tell you…
I didn’t read much further past that. I don’t understand this. I have near perfect grades, participate in several school clubs, and have as perfect of attendance as you can get. How did I not get in? How did I not get into Dolore and Cam did?
Still, I haven’t heard back from Vierdestad or Moenia Prima yet, so there’s still hope. Hell, even if I don’t get into college, I can still make a pretty penny writing term papers for Cam. I’m pretty sure he can’t play football if his grades spell out the word “FFFFFFF”.
Monday, January 24th, 3:33 P.M.
My little circle of friends has been growing recently. This isn’t a new thing, it ebbs and flows as we start dating people then break up with them. The difference now is that my little circle is as big as it’s ever been. Everyone has their own boyfriend or girlfriend that they bring along when we go eat, when we go hang out, when we go piss off verbrecher shopkeepers down the street, or whatever. Everyone has their own person who they’ve added to the group. Everyone but me.
It’s not that I don’t want a girlfriend, I’d very much like to have one. It’s just that I don’t think anyone is interested in me. The verbrecher girls sure aren’t, being revolted by anyone or anything opfer is practically bred into them. The opfer girls might be interested… if I didn’t hang out with Sparra. That guy is just so damn sexy. Any time I’m talking with a girl I’m sort of interested in the topic inevitably turns toward Sparra. Even when he’s not around, it’s always Sparra Sparra Sparra.
Delany did offer to try to hook me up with a girl from her Math class. She said this girl would be perfect for me, but she didn’t offer up any reasons why. The concept of Delany hooking me up with girls would be great if I weren’t really into Delany. It’s hard listening to Delany describe a girl in her class who I might be into without saying “I’m into you.”
Perhaps things will get better for me romantically once I get into college. I submitted my applications today to Dolore University, Vierdestad Tech, and Moenia Prima Community College. Dolore is kind of a long shot, I’m not really up for moving to Trebyer anyway. I’ll probably get into Vierdestad Tech anyway. Hopefully Sparra and Delany will join me there. Wanda is hoping and praying she’ll get into Community College, which is odd seeing as she’s told me on several occasions how she REALLY wants to get out of this town.
Hopefully everything will go well and I’ll be going to college this fall. Maybe I’ll meet the girl of my dreams at college and we’ll have one of those storybook romances they make movies out of. Not pornographic movies, real ones.
Sunday, January 4th, 12:41 A.M.
There are two things that I can count on from my parents every year on my birthday. One of them is an embarrassing party. I don’t mean embarrassing as in “Wow, this is totally unexpected. This is all too much. Thank you.” I mean embarrassing as in “What? You mean I have to go through this again? And you invited my friends as well? Gee, thanks.”
This is what I happened today. My Mom put the blindfold on me, led me to the car, then let my Dad drive aimlessly for about an hour, all the while repeating the phrase “No peeking.” This is all to disorient me so that I don’t know where I’m going, despite the fact that I know exactly where I’m going. It’s the same place where we just held Sakoshi’s birthday: The Opfer Cultural Center next to the mall.
At least my Dad gave me a good ride this year. My Dad’s driving technique involved him taking corners unexpectedly, zipping up hills and coasting down the other side, and coming to firm fast stops. I had fun, my Mom didn’t. Every so often, my Mom would cry out, “Solanin, be careful. We don’t need to get in a crash on our way to Hato’s party.”
To which my Dad responded, “Come on, Belle, the kid’s having fun, right?”
My Mom started curing under her breath, which caused me to say, “Dad, Mom’s cursing under her breath.” Then my Mom hit me hard on the head. She didn’t mean to hit me hard, Dad just happened to take a corner at the same time that Mom was trying to playfully strike me.
We got to the Cultural Center and Mom led me into one of the ballrooms where everyone was trying to be quiet. I know this because everyone was saying “Shhh!”, which results in people making a lot of noise to get people to stop making noise, which causes people to make a lot more noise to get people to stop making noise, and so on, and so on, untill the noise in the room is nearly deafening. Finally my Mom took off my blindfold and the people exclaimed “Happy birthday Hato” at a volume slightly lower than the shushing.
This year’s birthday party was about the same as last year’s birthday party. Same music, same food, same collection of family, friends, and family. About the only difference between this year and last year was the color of the streamers, red and gold as opposed to green and orange. As I looked around the ballroom, my Mom planted a kiss on my cheek and said, “So, what do you think of your party?”
I lifted my arm and said, “They misspelt the banner again.” I was referring to the banner that hung overhead that read “Happy 18th Birthday Shurtleff”. My parents use the same banner for every birthday celebration. All they have to do is change the number and it fits the situation. My Dad usually puts some comically large number on the banner for my Mom’s birthday. The only problem with this banner is the misspelling. We aren’t “Shurtlef’s”, we’re the “Shurtleff’s”. People tend to forget the double F’s at the end.
As the music started to ramp up, I began to be showered with gifts. This varied from music and movies from my friends, gift cards, and cash from my younger relatives. After I unwrapped every gift, I held it up and my Mom took a picture of me with it. Several of these pictures had to be retaken because my mother caught my friends flashing what she thought were gang signs in the background. My friends sure do like to torture me.
The last present I opened was from my parents, and in my mind I knew what it was. Ever since I was eight years old, my parents have given me a journal for my birthday, each titled “Journal (#)”. This was my Dad’s idea. I don’t know if it’s due to his work as an archivists or if it’s just something he’s always been into, but my Dad is driven to have people document their lives. What happens, where it happens, when it happens, why it happens, and what they think about it. Receiving a journal is the other thing I can count on from my parents every year on my birthday as a way to encourage me to document my life. However, this year was slightly different.
When I picked up the box the present from my parents was in, I noticed it was smaller than normal. My first thought was that my parents had noticed that I mainly use the journals they give me for doodling or writing bad poetry. I opened the box and saw what lay inside. It was a Hipster. A Hipster. Not a knockoff, or Hipster Lite, a real, honest to God, 64GB Hipster. I was elated.
The Hipster came packed with music, mine and some my Dad’s been trying to get me into, as well as some programs. There’s a radio program, a news program, some game programs, and a program simply titled “Journal”. The Journal program is, oddly enough, a program that allows you to maintain a journal. So my parents did get me a journal for my birthday, they just got me a different kind of journal. This was confirmed to me when I read the inscription on the back of my Hipster. “Volume 11”.
After all the presents were opened and I endured having to speak with many of my older family members who I only have to endure once a year, my friends and I were permitted to bail on my parent’s party in favor of some fun of my own. I thanked my parents for the party and sincerely thanked them for the Hipster. My Dad suggested I listen to the Grandchester Meadows tracks that he put on my Hipster and I humored him by saying that I would.
Sparra, Delany, Wanda, and I left the party and went to our usual hangout, downtown. Not anywhere in particular downtown, just downtown. We didn’t run into any problems, outside of the verbrecher we like to antagonize by standing across the street from his diner and drinking soda. I know that’s something we shouldn’t do, but that guy shouldn’t be aggravated with us just because we’re there. I know that the verbrecher are in the majority, not just in numbers but in what the control, but that doesn’t give them the right to stomp all over us. What was I writing about? Oh yeah…
By the time my friends and I were done having fun it was already well past nine. We had to sneak home so that the cops wouldn’t catch us breaking curfew and beat our asses and so our parents wouldn’t do the same. I think I did so successfully, except I swear I woke up Sakoshi in the next room. I bet he’s waiting just to tattle on me in the morning when Mom and Dad would be both awake and conscious. I’ll have to wake up early and make some of those pancakes he likes. Perhaps I can find a new pancake recipe on my Hipster. I have to do something else on this thing than listen to music and watch pornography.
Solicitation For Identification Assistance
I am looking some help in identifying a commercial that ran on USA Network. The commercial in question ran on Monday, July 30th, at approximately 12:36 A.M., during an episode of Political Animals, episode title "The Woman Problem". The commercial in question features Bay Buchanan, Senior Advisor at Romney For America, and the video appears to be taken from an appearance she made on CNN's "The Situation Room". The audio in this commercial is completely distorted, none of the words that are being said are audible, all that is heard in this commercial is choppy static. I am unable to idenfity on what date the video is taken from, but the graphic that appears directly beneath Bay Buchanan reads "ROMNEY AD: OBAMA "DOESN'T TELL THE TRUTH".
This is a commercial I've seen several times before. However, I seem to be unable to find any information about it. I've dug around online and cannot even find any chatter about it.
Can you help me in identifying who is responsible for this commercial, or point me in the direction of somebody who can? Any help in this matter will be appreciated.
Recently, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid made some accusations about Mitt Romney's taxes. These accusations have resulted in Sen. Reid receiving a lot of criticism from press, pundits, fellow politicians, and random people on Twitter.
These accusations center on an anonymous claim by a Bain Capital investor that Mitt Romney had not paid any taxes for a ten year period. These accusations were made in a phone call to Sen. Reid's congressional office.
Most of the pundits criticizing Sen. Reid have focused on the absurd nature of these allegations, as well as the anonymity of the source of the allegations. While I too have problems with these allegations, my problems do not lie directly with Senator Reid. They lie with the caller. Does anyone remember Jimmy O'Keefe?
Jimmy O'Keefe is a self described journalist, antagonist, and real life satirist. On multiple occasions, Jimmy O'Keefe has released videos that have shown Democratic politicians, and other liberal activists, in a negative light. These videos were procured using methods that many call underhanded, unfair, and criminal.
The last time I remember hearing of Mr. O'Keefe was when he tried to film unflattering videos at the Occupy Wall Street protests that occurred last year. What has Jimmy O'Keefe been doing since then? Who else has he inspired? What other self styles satirists exist out there that would use tactics similar to Jimmy O'Keefe's?
Harry Reid's accusations don't pass the smell test to me. This is not because I don't believe the substance of them, although I must admit the substance of them seem completely absurd to me. The source of the accusations are suspect to me. It is my honest belief that someone could call up Senator Reid's Congressional Office, pass themselves off as a Bain Capital investor, and tell the Senator's office things that they then would tell the media about. Harry Reid wouldn't be the first sitting politician to be pranked like this.
Unless the person making these accusations comes forward with substantive proof that what he is saying is true, I am forced to conclude that these accusations are false. Of course, all of these allegations could be easily cleared up if Mitt Romney would release his tax forms to the press. Those forms could prove these allegations to be entirely ales and serve as a major embarrassment to Senator Reed and the Democratic Party.
Settled by fur trappers in the year 1844, the city of Moenia Prima served as a resting point for travels making their way between Dha Chathair and Trebyer. Later on, Moenia Prima served as a haven for people who wanted to escape the increasing influence of religion that came as a result of Dha Chathair’s population explosion in 1863.
Moenia Prima experienced a population boom when a facility that manufactured products for the Dolorian military was built in 1980. With the population boom came a diversification of the city’s residents. This resulted in an increase in the opfer population in Moenia Prima, going from 11% of the total population in 1975 to 37% in 1984, with verbrechers making up the other 63%.
Like many other locations in Dolore, the increase of opfers in Moenia Prima correlated with an increase in crime. Many media figures in Moenia Prima, as well as several politicians, blamed the increase in crime on the opfers. This is despite much of the increase being driven by a sharp and sustained increase in crimes being committed by young verbrechers.
The scapegoating of opfers lead to an increase in tensions between the majority verbrechers and the minority opfers. The tensions resulted in the Isotopia Riots in 1993. Despite the riots going on for four days and resulting in nearly thirty-five million Valore in damages, no substantial progress was made in quelling these tensions.
Before the situation currently going on in Dolore flared up, the last Dolorian census, conducted in 2010, estimated the population of Moenia Prima to be 83,112.
Vince Fielding, reporter VBNS
by Hunter Red
©2012 Hunter Red
©2012 Hunter Red
This work was started on August 10, 2010, and was finished on May 16, 2012.
No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission from the copyright holder. Sorry, no straight up free ways to get the book in its complete entirety. You can either pay the small price for the physical copy, the even smaller price for the digital copy, or wait for the serialized version to slowly come out.
There are various ways that this work will be distributed, both through traditional means and untraditional. It’s not that the writer dislikes the traditional distribution method, it just hasn’t worked for him yet. If you think it can work for yourself, more power to you. If you think it can work for the writer, contact him.
The story of the situation currently going on in Dolore has been trickling out for weeks now. Most of the stories rely on footage smuggled out of that country and second hand accounts. What follows is a firsthand account of one person’s experience of the situation going on in Dolore written as he was experiencing it. It is not a complete account of the situation going on in Dolore, but it does provide an insight into the people involved in it.
Volume 11 is a journal written by Hato Shurtleff with the Hipster Journal Program, both through typing entries out on the Hipster and by utilizing the voice recognition software on the Hipster. At the start of Volume 11, Hato is an eighteen year old high school senior living in Moenia Prima, Dolore. At the start of each part there will be a short introduction written by myself, and there is an event that is not written from Hato’s perspective, but the vast majority of Volume 11 is written by Hato Shurtleff. It is written by Hato Shurtleff, about Hato Shurtleff, involving things that happened to Hato Shurtleff. Contained in this account is also what Hato thoughts are about the things that are going on. The first entry in the account is dated Sunday, January 9th, 2011.
Let us begin.
Vince Fielding, reporter VBNS
Hunter Red, pictured left, is a nominally successful satirist, writer, and potential lunch winner living in Salt Lake City, Utah. Mr. Red is a recovering alcoholic, although his recovery has been less than successful since he has stopped going to his prescribed therapy sessions, and has begun drinking again. Hunter is has a mostly negative viewpoint of the world, is distrustful of all humans, and thoroughly enjoys cheesecake.
Robin Anderson, pictured left, is Hunter Red's most recent ex-girlfriend. Hunter's relationship with Robin was complicated by the fact that she is not real. Robin is a product of an alcohol fueled hallucination. This was a hallucination that Hunter like to experience, due to Miss Anderson being the only real serious girlfriend Mr. Red has ever had. Robin is intelligent, strong willed, and has a razor sharp wit.
Hunter Red And Robin And A Beer Keg
Hunter Red pulls up to his condo in Ruby, his big fucking SUV. He pulls into his garage backward and quickly closes the garage door. Out of the back of Ruby, Hunter pulls out a beer keg. Hunter places the beer keg in an open spot on the floor of his garage, then begins to speak as if someone is listening. No one is currently present in the garage as Hunter begins to speak.
Hunter Red- Yes, here now, the light of the party on college campuses across the nation, your standard beer keg. Sure, kegs are illegal here in the state of Utah, but the fuck I care. Alcohol laws are made by old, fat, white, bigots who only want to control the population and line their pockets with gold. Also, they are fat.
Hunter Red walks over to the toolchest he keeps in his garage, digs around for a little bit, then finds what he was looking for, the tap for a beer keg. Hunter walks over, taps the keg, hooks up the nozzle to it, then says-
Hunter Red- Well, let's begin.
The camera pans over to a clock on the wall of Hunter's garage. In typical television fashion, the hands on the clock start to move quickly untill three hours and seventeen minutes have gone by. After the timeshift, the camera pans back over to Hunter. Mr. Red is sitting on the floor of his garage, next to the beer keg, with the nozzle in his mouth. It is clear from the visual cues that Hunter has been spending the past three hours and seventeen minutes drinking directly from the beer keg. Hunter removes the nozzle from his mouth and says-
Hunter Red- Yeah! Take that polimaticians. I just drank beer from a beer keg that was full of beer from a beer keg because it was a keg that had beer in it because it was a beer keg. (Loud belch) Ha ha ha! YEAH!!!
The camera pans away from Hunter to a door in the garage leading into the house. The door is open and the room is brightly lit. Through the door the sound of a pair of high heels can be heard clacking on a hard wood floor, making their way closer and closer to the door, the sound of which echoes throughout the entire house. A figure walks into the door frame, a beautiful figure wearing high heels silhouetted by the intense light coming from the other room. The camera follows the legs of the person, particularly the heels, clacking with every step, as the figure walks through the door frame, across the garage, over to where Hunter is sitting. Hunter looks up at the figure, bleary-eyed and obviously drunk.
Hunter Red- Hi. I haven't seen you in a while. You look voluminnomnoninous.
The camera shot changes to reveal who it is that Hunter is talking to. The figure is Robin Anderson. Robin looks down at Hunter with disappointment in her eyes.
Robin Anderson- So, let me get this straight: You drove all the way up to Evanston, risked getting caught and prosecuted, just so you could get a giant container of beer.
There is an unapologetic tone to Hunter's face when he says-
Hunter Red- Yep.
Robin Anderson- Did you save any for me.
Hunter holds up the nozzle connected to the beer keg and presses the button on it. A small stream of mostly beer foam trickles out of the nozzle.
Hunter Red- Nope.
Robin maintains her disappointed look as she sit down next to Hunter on the floor of the garage.
Robin Anderson- You don't look good.
Hunter Red- Did I ever?
Robin Anderson- Yes, you did. You looked quite good when I was with you.
Hunter Red- Not nearly as good as you look.
Robin Anderson- Well, that goes without saying. How have you been?
Hunter Red- How have you been?
Robin Anderson- Are you imitating me?
Hunter Red- No.
Robin Anderson- Are you sure, because you know how I've been.
Hunter Red- No I don't.
Robin Anderson- I'm an alcohol fueled hallucination.
Hunter Red- That doesn't answer my question.
Robin Anderson- I feel good, or bad. I'm not sure. Not being real kind of makes you question how you feel about things.
Hunter Red- What do you mean not being real?
Hunter puts his hand on Robin's thigh.
Hunter Red- You sure do feel real.
Robin Anderson- Of course I feel real, this is your hallucination.
Hunter Red- Yeah, but even when I wasn't drunk and somehow remembering hallucinating you, you felt real.
Robin Anderson- Of course you thought my body felt real.
Hunter Red- No, I mean the connection we had. The way you would talk with me, laugh with me, converse with me, criticize me, all of the parts of a fully functioning relationship, it felt real.
Robin Anderson- But it wasn't.
Hunter Red- Yeah.
A look of incredible sadness comes over the face of Hunter. Robin looks at Hunter and says-
Robin Anderson- Hunter, you need to move on.
Hunter Red- No.
Robin Anderson- Hunter, you need to move on.
Hunter Red- No.
Robin Anderson- Hunter, you need to-
Hunter Red-(Angrily) I heard you, I just don't want to.
Robin Anderson- Why not?
Hunter tries to stand up, but fails, falling hard on the concrete floor he was just sitting on.
Robin Anderson- I think you need help.
Hunter tries to stand up again, with the same result as he had the first time.
Robin Anderson- I think you need help.
Hunter tries to stand up again, this time falling forward, landing hard on his shoulder and laying on his back on the cold concrete floor. Robin stands up, looks over Hunter with a kind of caring look in her eyes.
Robin Anderson- Hunter, you need help. Hunter, you need to move on. You need to clean yourself up, for real this time. You need to do this, because you can't just spend your life obsessing over things that never were. You need to start dealing with things that actually are. This world is a wonderful place, and while I am not in it, many other things and people are. Hunter. Hunter, can you hear me?
Hunter is laying on his back on the cold concrete floor asleep. Robin eyes are again filled with disappointment.
Robin Anderson- (Sigh) I hope somewhere in his deep subconscious he heard me.
Robin Anderson walks across the garage floor, back through the door frame, and closes it behind her.
In our most desperate hours, we often grasp on to one another. For strength. For stability. For someone. Someone so that in our hour of desperation we do not face that desperation alone.