101

National Public Radio is really good at taking a simple concept and then dissecting, analyzing, and breaking it down to the point of oblivion. The concept then loses all meaning and you never ever want hear about it again, much less sit through another 2 hour long pain-marathon of “what is the meaning of zero?” because SOMEONE left the door to your car unlocked (CHRISTINE) and some vagrant accidently kicked the center consol as he tried to steal your super rare and valuable half-empty can of Pringles so now the radio is permanently stuck on NPR. It’s a common phenomenon. You can hit your head so hard you become retarded. Radios work the same way. For my 101st blog entry I thought I would explore the personal meanings the number 101 holds for me because, well, it’s a dumb idea and I hate all of you. In my last semester of college, I was basically done with my major. All I needed to take were some filler classes for credits, so I took two 101 classes; some sort of intro to biology and one enigmatically called “American Society”.

I got a fucking C in bio. HOW?! Well, for one, there was no science in the class. None. Ok, like, I’m a pretty liberal guy. I’m all for saving the whales, give a hoot; don’t pollute, all that jazz. My professor was such a bleeding heart, faux hippy, bearded granola-munching commie pinko leftist that he made me feel like John Wayne voting for Regan on a horse, all punching the hole in my voting card by shooting it with my .45. It was kind of hard to pay attention to all of the “Why the fishing industry has completely fucked the planet” articles which our tests were based off of.

My American Society class was pretty cool. Little work, easy tests and I took that shit pass/fail. When our final rolled around, we were given our essay questions a week ahead of time. How easy is that? So easy that I didn’t even write them. I traced an outline of my hand and turned it into a turkey. I was done in 2 minutes. Passed.

I remember watching 101 Dalmatians as a kid and thinking what a dumb movie it was. First, I was bummed that all the dogs did not come from the same litter. They were adopted. Pfffffff whatever. That one female dog gave birth to like 25 puppies as a nod to the fertility branch of the pharmaceutical industry which helps finance Disney. And then there was that bitch Cruella De Vil. Her thing was that she wanted to kill the puppies and turn them into a coat. Uh, hey slag, that shit would look horrible all Frankensteined together like that. A pelt needs congruency. It needs to be made from one giant animal. What New Jersey based fashion school did you flunk out of? Imbecile.

Obama’s first 100 days were being talked about by political sophists since day 3. After it came and went, we had to face reality and know that day 101 for Obama would be no different than day 33, 79, 666, or 1024.

You asked me once, what was in Room 101. I told you that you already knew the answer. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world. Under the spreading Chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me, there lie they and here lie we under the spreading Chestnut tree.

Gangbangin’ 101 is the best Snoop Dog song, ever.

The T-800 Model 101 is the end result of a bunch of confusion and fanboy bullshit born from the Terminator series. Let me explain. See, in Terminator 2 and Terminator 3, Schwartzenwhatever’s character is referred to as the Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 and T-101 respectively. BUT, in Salvation, T2 Extreme Edition DVD and the Terminator 2 video game, he’s called the 800 series. They use T-800 and T-850 to refer to the same character (what). So yadda yadda, some more detective stuff in DVD commentaries, interviews, a stork comes and visits, Santa Claus…and now the unofficially but widely recognized nomenclature is the T-800 Model 101 to describe the Governor. And that’s how bills are made in California.