Wednesday, September 03, 2014

The Fappening; Or How We Got All Upton Snowden

UNCENSORED NUDE CELEB FAPPENING PHOTOS!!!!



Now that I have your attention, here's a long-winded word from our sponsor (me).  First things first, to catch those of you who aren't aware up on the news:

Due to the recent release of hacked celebrity photos, many people are outraged.  It's been dubbed "The Fappening".  The FBI is involved in tracking down the perpetrators of the hacks, and many celebrities are suing. Just whom they're suing isn't clear yet. As as far as I know, the perpetrator(s) haven't been tracked down yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if some internet photo hosts, including Apple's iCloud, are included.

A cloud that looks vaguely like an eye. Litigation via Apple pending.

Why are these suits and uproar a problem?  The simple answer is that they're not.  The furor is a perfectly reasonable response to citizens having their private lives violated by those unscrupulous enough to hack individuals, no matter how famous those individuals might be.

I tried playing devil's advocate for the hackers, arguing that the riches and fame of celebrity entitle these people to less privacy than the rest of us, and utterly failed to convince anyone. Including myself.

I failed because we can all imagine ourselves in the same crosshair.  A faceless villain who silently assaults us; who steals our dignity and our privacy.  All the while, we have no inkling of what's going on.  We blithely proceed on our merry way until a friend asks "Hey, why'd you share that photo of you naked on a hay bale at your parent's farm that I took of you when we were teenagers?  I thought you said that was for your private portfolio."

Hypothetical bale for a hypothetical scenario. 

Perhaps when we realized our hay bale photo went public, we'd realize two things:
  • We're not as safe or as private on the internet as we thought.
  • We were never going to submit that hay bale photo, ever.  The lighting wasn't even that great.
All joking aside, invasion of privacy is a serious crime.  In fact, it's so serious that one guy, after trying to report government privacy invasions to authorities multiple times, whistle-blew despite knowing that he'd have to flee the country to avoid jail time.  He did it anyway.  He had to flee despite campaign promises from Obama to reward/support whistleblowers who reported on those who were committing illegal acts.  I'm talking, of course, about Edward Snowden.  

He looks sad because he's all snowed-in. Get it? Because he's in Russia.

Why am I mentioning this?  Because Snowden saw the federal government (specifically the NSA) doing the same thing that we're so outraged about happening to everyone in the United States.  And some in other countries.  Oh, and when asked about it, the Director of the NSA, James Clapper, lied.  (Edit: Government officials assert that Clapper didn't lie, but stated that his statements were"inaccurate" and the statements couldn't be corrected because it concerned classified materials.)

Now, you can definitely argue the scope and breadth of data collected.  Although it's hard to argue about things that are classified.  As Donald Rumsfeld so eloquently argued "...there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know."  We didn't know anything about a spying program before Snowden, so all we can say about what's truly being collected is that it's an unknown unknown.  Would we have ever known about any of it unless Snowden had stepped forward?  Very doubtful.  His reward?  Sentencing under 1917's Espionage Act if he ever steps foot back in the country.



Where does that leave us?

On one hand we have the FBI tracking down an individual/individuals who broke into the accounts of up to 100 celebrities and released nude photos.  On the other, we have our government prosecuting an individual who let us know that, in one form or another, the same thing was happening to us without our knowledge.

I know that there will be those who argue that it's for national security, and that if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.  If we accept those statements, though, then we have to think about the inverse of those statements:
  • How does it make me secure by making me (AKA my privacy) insecure, especially without my knowledge?
  • If those who have nothing to hide have nothing to fear, why did the NSA hide the program? 
  • People don't want to post their yearly salary, name and location every time they post on the internet.  Are they up to no good?
Even if you wish to ignore those questions, or don't agree with them, there's another thing to take into consideration.  Despite the size of the NSA's new data center in Utah, computers can't do all the work.  They analyze data, but if it fits certain metrics, it'll be forwarded on to a human for further analysis.  Some scenarios:

Maybe you were talking to your dad via cell phone about how much ammonium nitrate fertilizer to bring home.
Maybe you were texting your wife to tell her that your baby just blew up his diaper at Lincoln Center.
Maybe you were sending death threats to the dude who leaked your hay bale photos.*
          *One of these is hypothetical

In some of those cases, your messages would be flagged and forwarded on for review by a real live person.  Not a computer.  A squishy, meaty fallible human being!  Who'd probably share nude photographs, given the chance.  After all, a TSA agent recently spilled the beans about the behaviors regarding nude scanners, and those weren't even hot text messages to your girlfriend.  

Imagine what could happen to a flagged text message from her that also happened to contain a "private" picture.

McKayla Maroney sees where this is going.

Only two paragraphs left, so stay with me!  

We, as humans, have a tendency to sympathize with an example of something rather than an abstract.  That's why we donate to a kid in our hometown that contracts cancer instead of giving that money to the ACS.  But that doesn't mean that a large violation of individual privacy is less offensive than a small one.  So while we're riled up, we need to take a look at what we can do.

What can we do?  We can write our senators, we can write our congressmen, we can vote.  We can contribute to organizations that help promote our civil rights and liberties.  We can have sympathy for individuals harmed by invasions of privacy.  We can ask our President to actually support whistleblowers instead of trying them under a law made in 1917.  

I hope we do.  Channel your outrage into positive change.


P.S. In case you're wondering why I posted all this here instead of Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram...well, it's long.  I'm long-winded.  But I also wanted (if you still have the energy) to read back through this blog.  I wrote it in my early twenties.  I'm thirty-two years old now, married with three dogs (and maybe a kid some time soon!) Reading this makes me at times embarrassed, amused, facepalm, or just rueful at how little I knew.  But I keep it online because it reminds me that we live in the digital age.  An age where very little is private, and what we say online lives forever.  Delete an insensitive tweet or a risqué picture, and chances are someone's already taken a screenshot.  We're going to be pretty busy explaining ourselves to our kids in 20 years.  Let's not let anyone, not hackers, not the government, take away what little privacy we have left.



Sunday, June 16, 2013

Compressing and Composting

My last post was in 2009, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.  What's happened since then?

Short answer: many things.

I switched jobs, got married, and my wife and I bought a new house.  All of these changed combined to take me away from my old hobby of reviewing bars.  After all, the whole point of going to bars is to meet chicks, AMIRITE?

That was a rhetorical question.

I struggled for a long time to think about how I could keep the Mixocologist relevant, because I spent a lot of time and energy building up the brand, only to drop it like a Parkinson's patient holding a baby made of lead.

Then, there was an epiphany.  Why not share the things that I love now, but with the same irreverent, politically incorrect humor of days afore?

Admittedly, there will be many fewer pictures of gorgeous, big-breasted women, because they don't seem to flock to gardens like they do to $2 pint nights.  That's OK by me, though, because I don't really flock to $2 pint nights either.  

SO.  Here's the new format.  You can read the old Mixocologist posts and marvel at my shenanigans, and then you can read the new ones to learn about square foot gardening and straw bale gardening.

As we age, our priorities change and we have to adapt or get left behind.  Thus, my new motto: Hoes will always be fo' sho's, but nothing tastes better than a fresh tomato.

Especially when mixed with some cucumber and mint...

Next up will be some instructions and demonstrations on how to straw bale garden, square foot garden, and just generally garden the shit out of stuff.  

Pomario vitae!

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Forsooth

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Continued - Technizzle My Nizzle

Continuing this week's theme. We've got two requests, and one just because I luff it.


Pro - it's high. Con - requires an aviation license.

----------------------------------

Vanilla Ice
To the Extreme
Ice, Ice Baby

"Dance, Bum rush the speaker that booms / I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom."

Encoded in my melody line is a sonic frequency that mimics the effects of
Amanita phalloides. Quickly, destroy the speakers before it's too late!


(Fun fact: Vanilla Ice's decision to appear on The Surreal Life was a result of said mushrooms.)

----------------------------------

Sir Mixalot
Mack Daddy
Baby Got Back

"So your girlfriend rolls a Honda, playin' workout tapes by Fonda /
But Fonda ain't got a motor in the back of her Honda /
My anaconda don't want none / Unless you've got buns, hun
"

The reason your girlfriend has a flat ass is because she listens to workout tapes in the car, as opposed to listening to them while working out. P.S. I do not want to sleep with Jane Fonda.

(fun fact: did sleep with Jane Fonda, but is ashamed of it.)

----------------------------------

Mistah Fab
Da Yellow Bus Rydah
Ghost Ride It

"when you get a new car / and ya feeling like a star [ ok ok ] /
what you gon do / GHOST RIDE IT / ghost ride cha whip. "

If you have a new car, you should let ghosts ride in it, because ghosts need rides too. Also try driving it while standing on the hood.

(fun fact: "F.A.B." stands for "faeva afta bread" and Mistah stands for "Money is something to always have". For real.)

for instructions on how to ghost ride, see below.




----------------------------------

That's it for this week! Thanks to Andre and C-Unit for sending me requests. Did you enjoy the fun facts, or would you prefer more literal translations?


IMPORTANT: I NEED YOUR HELP

Do you have rap lyrics that you need translated? Maybe you don't understand the mathematics of H to the O to the V to the A, or perhaps you're having trouble digesting the poignant imagery of 2 Live Crew's "Me So Horny". Whatever the case, I'm here to help! Just send the lyrics, preferably with the artist, song, and album, to mixocologist at gmail dot com. Help is just a button click away.

Week 1: Technizzle My Nizzle

This week's theme? Technology!


"Hello, can I have some rizzle shizzle?"

----------------------------------

Jay-Z
The Black Album

"Encore"

"Out the country but the blueberry still connect."

I am so fantastically rich that I can ignore interational long-distance roaming charges on my wrong-fruit-label cellular phone.

----------------------------------

A Tribe Called Quest
Low End Theory
"Skypager"


"The 'S' in skypage really stands for sex / Beeper's goin off like Don Trump gets checks"

My girlfriend took my new beeper with a vibrate setting, and is now making me call her every 45 seconds.

----------------------------------
P. Diddy
Press Play

"Hold Up"

"When his majesty speaks, speech defy gravity / Bluetooth nigga but I don't have any cavities"


"Listening to me is uplifting. Not only am I an excellent speaker, I also happen to possess a cellular headset and a clean bill of dental health.

----------------------------------

Next update - Thursday.


IMPORTANT: I NEED YOUR HELP Do you have rap lyrics that you need translated? Maybe you don't understand the mathematics of H to the O to the V to the A, or perhaps you're having trouble digesting the poignant imagery of 2 Live Crew's "Me So Horny". Whatever the case, I'm here to help! Just send the lyrics, preferably with the artist, song, and album, to mixocologist at gmail dot com. Help is just a button click away.

H to the Me

Hey there.

Sup?

If a thing becomes truly awful, eventually you'll stumble across irrefutable evidence of how bad it is. Here is a good example. One more. Another excellent example: I realized that my last blog post was, oh, last year. Double-plus fail.

This is very much a "meet the new boss, same as the old boss," moment. Even though I'm not changing, the blog will. To begin with, this will no longer be for bar reviews.

The new subject of my blog will be rap lyric translations. And maybe some funny pictures, I haven't really made up my mind yet.

Is this random? Absolutely. But it'll be whipass, too.

Posts will be 2X a week - Tuesday & Thursday, and each one will have at least two translations, depending on length.

I'll be posting this Tuesday's translations tomorrow!

IMPORTANT: MIXOCOLOGIST NEEDS YOUR HELP

Do you have rap lyrics that you need translated? Maybe you don't understand the mathematics of H to the O to the V to the A, or perhaps you're having trouble digesting the poignant imagery of 2 Live Crew's "Me So Horny". Whatever the case, I'm here to help! Just send the lyrics, preferably with the artist, song, and album, to mixocologist at gmail dot com. Help is just a button click away.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Heineken? Not Likely.

I recently watched David Lynch's Blue Velvet, and saw what is perhaps my real father. (The one yelling, not the pussy.) Enjoy.

Monday, August 11, 2008

My New Car

24's On My Feet, Son. You Best Be Steppin', or I guess driving or ghostriding the whip or whatever. You know what I mean. I am so bad at being gangsta.

Mad dubz.

It's probably a song reference, I guess...something like "Tweet tweet, now show me your vagina, bitches." Ill lyrics, dawg. Almost as ill as the color of your car.




Monday, August 04, 2008

New Jersey

Now that I'm somewhat recovered from my trip to NJ, I thought I'd put up a quick pic of one of the odd things I saw while in the drug-needle Garden State. As you may or may not know, blue laws are different up there...and when I say different, I mean mind-numbingly stupid. You can't buy any beer or wine at the grocery store.

That's right, nada. Any type of alcohol must be purchased from a liquor store. As you can imagine, there's one on every corner, and they're open late. Oh, and in Philadelphia you can buy six-packs from the bar, but that's another story.

I got my friend to stop at one on the way back from the airport, and it just so happened to be the strangest one I've ever seen. From the outside, it looked pretty normal.

Bar on the left, liquor in front, poker in the back. Kidding.
My mind was blown when I walked inside, though:

I call it "The Gauntlet"

When I asked the pretty young thing behind the counter why the store was set up like this, her answer was "I have no idea." I couldn't really blame her, since I didn't have any idea either, and she was hot as hell (I tend to be more forgiving of stupidity if looking at you doesn't make my face hurt)."My breasts speak for themselves, sir."

I did ask her if you could buy a bottle of booze and drink it at the bar, but the answer was no. I think this is because they haven't had to deal with me before. I shrugged, tequila in hand, and continued on my way, pausing just long enough to document this oddity for you, my loyal readers.

More stories from New Jersey to come, plus the exciting answer to what the hell the SC Beer Wholeseller's Association really does. All this and more in the next episode of Two's Company Because There's Only One Bottle.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

In Transit

I'm sitting ine a green-gray chair in Memphis International Airport, and I have one thing to say:

Thank you, you delicate-lunged fairies, for making it impossible for me to smoke in your airport. When I de-pressurize the cabin in mid-flight, you'll know why.

P.S. I drank a Killians here, it tastes saltier.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Conversant Flirting

A quiz:

Imagine that you're at a bar, late in the evening. Smoke-filled haze slowly circulates the bar, dimming your already lackluster vision. In your hand you clutch your fourth drink...or is it your sixth? Near to closing time, the impossible happens - you meet a beautiful girl, and, no shitting, she makes a hourglass look like a ruler. The two of you hit it off, and she inquires if you'd want to go back to her place. You respond with:

A. I'd love to see what your nipples look like.
B. Do you know what "motorboating" is?
C. I'd love to snuggle my sausage in your hot rack.
D. Smother me to death with your tits, my life insurance goes to orphans.
E. I'm busy taking a dump in your purse.

I'll give you a second to think about that.

"I'll take the ugly one."

Done thinking?

What'd you pick (like I actually believe you won't just scroll past this, look at the answer, and then say that's what you were thinking the whole time)? Anyway, yes, the answer was C! Good job! But do you know...why?

It's simple, really, once you think about it. Real women, truly classy ladies, prefer to have their milk-muffins referred to ask "racks". Not breasts, not tits, not doggy handles, not pendulous mounds, or melons, and definitely not any derivation of "cock buns". No, women realize that racks are classy. To demonstrate, let's examine some famous racks, shall we?

Delicious rack of lamb

I figured I'd start us out with one of my fav's - a rack of lamb. Damn, it's delicious. I can just look at the photo and smell savory charred fats and delicate herbal scents. Regardless of what I think, it's red meat. You're a man. It's tasty because our genes, the same ones that make us love Foreigner, tell us so. As the parable goes; the man who fights himself never wins, and if you don't like Foreigner, fuck you.


Shelving: Holds learnin' and shit

Throughout the years, many great things have rested upon racks of shelving. I myself have used racks to store any number of things! Onions, shallots, whipped yogurts, breads, snuff films, garlic, cumin, kitten fur pillows, homonculi...the list really just goes on and on. Face it - without the idea of racked shelving, 100% of your shit would be on the floor, instead of a moderate 80%.


Jennifer Connelly

This rack has brought me more joy than perhaps any other, despite the fact that I've never been able to place anything between, onto, or even touch it. Holy crap. I think the left one just winked at me.

Medieval rack

Some people will tell you that the medieval rack was a terrible, evil instrument, one that slowly tore your ligaments free and popped your tendons. Well, they're all short. Listen, the rack remains the first and only invention that will give you an extra 8" overnight. Forgot about those emails junking up your inbox, this is the real deal! And for only 19.95, you can experience the kind of growth you haven't felt since Mandy Tenner let you touch her thigh! ...See? You were totally buying into it. Point proved, moving on.


The server rack.

Believe it or not, humble racks of steel and aluminum just like this house all of the world's porn. That's right - every picture of a wayward nipple straying out of a prom gown resides in one of these holy temples to technology. Also the internet does other things, like Google and Facebook.


I think that by now, I've proved my point. Throughout the history of man, the rack has known many beautiful iterations, and culminated with Jennifer Connelly's magnificent shelving. So, next time that you're having a fine meal with a real lady, flatter her by mentioning how the moonlight makes her rack glisten. And when her eyes light up you'll know that tonight, you're gonna get one of these:

Sammich: Oh yeah that's good.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

My Dream House

I was walking to a gas station today on my lunch break, and I passed by a small brick building with heavily-tinted windows. "Huh," I said to myself, "I wonder if this is a secret downtown strip club?"

When I found the sign, I learned that no, it was not. It was even better.

Beer Wholesalers: Wanna Drown In a Vat of Killians?

Good lord, man! Beer, sold...cheaply? Why isn't there one of these associations on every street corner? And why did they hide from me? Frankly, I was a little upset I didn't know about the place. Here is an artistic interpretation of my disgust:


These questions, and others, will probably never be answered. Still, they're fun to think about - and who knows? Maybe when I (finally) have my shot contest they'll award me a honorary wholesaler's license!

*(editor's note: Hopefully it won't be a posthumous award.)

Is anyone else interested in seeing if I can call these people up and get an interview with them? Maybe find out what exactly the hell it is that I do? If so, post in the comments. Just one request, and I'll be blowin' up their phones like a drunk ex-girlfriend in 5 Points at 3 A.M...minus the background noise you'd normally hear at Bar None, of course (which is really the only place still open at 3 A.M., but I digress.)

Also, you may notice I finally changed the poll again. Vote away, it's open till the 30th!