Pretty Is What We Aim For
* * *
Fact of the Day
The Overton Window is a political theory named after Joe Overton to describe the passage of political and philosophical ideas that change over time. For example, ideas that seemed outrageous to our grandparents are considered acceptable in today's society.
It is best described as a household with a window. Outside of said window are ideas that are outlandish and taboo. Inside said window are ideas that are common practice. The degrees of acceptance are as such: unthinkable, radical, acceptible, sensible, popular, policy.
Fun project: See if you can distinguish which political ideals are which and line up why they are such and how it relates to how the Overton Window has moved over the course of generations.
* * *
Word of the Day
Hypocrisy
-noun
1. The practice of professing beliefs, feelings, or virtues that one does not hold or possess; falseness.
2. An act or instance of such falseness.
* * *
Fact of the Day
The Overton Window is a political theory named after Joe Overton to describe the passage of political and philosophical ideas that change over time. For example, ideas that seemed outrageous to our grandparents are considered acceptable in today's society.
It is best described as a household with a window. Outside of said window are ideas that are outlandish and taboo. Inside said window are ideas that are common practice. The degrees of acceptance are as such: unthinkable, radical, acceptible, sensible, popular, policy.
Fun project: See if you can distinguish which political ideals are which and line up why they are such and how it relates to how the Overton Window has moved over the course of generations.
* * *
Word of the Day
Hypocrisy
-noun
1. The practice of professing beliefs, feelings, or virtues that one does not hold or possess; falseness.
2. An act or instance of such falseness.
* * *
Spikey hair?
Large eyes?
Small mouth?
Pointy chin?
lolwut?
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
24 hours.
There were only 24 hours until Ripplemagne was javelin'd into the Lion's Den. The heat was building. Despite being the underdog, many cited Ripplemagne as the odds on favorite to take the match home. Others went as far as to claim that Ripplemagne was "too good" for the Sterling division. Ripplemagne was the main character of this story! Or at least... that's what he established in his response to the odd James McCain. In fact... who better to go into a Lion's Den than the Lion of Global Extreme Wrestling, himself?
Sure, the majority of the people in this match were newbies, but that's where things became dangerous. With someone like Kameron Chase, all Ripplemagne had to do to get into his head was to pop in a tape and watch. And, realistically, this was more like a handicap match than a battle royale. Nine on one and Ripplemagne was among the most petite in the match.
The Matinée Movie Trailer, however, was still a fortified stronghold. A haven. A security blanket. Here, Ripplemagne was accompanied by Ahn, Miss Sarah, Hayden Clarke, The Tang, Dwight Mare and Bucky Skyler. And in the face of their anxiety, Ripplemagne relished the upcoming bout as though it were Rocky versus Apollo Creed. Call him crazy (he's crazy!), but challenge made him feel alive. He'd eat his pasta drenched in red pepper and tobasco just because the tingling on his tongue gave him a rush.
The quirky, champagne-haired youth's heart was like a rubicks cube in the hands of a master. It shifted in its own algorithms as his breath would subside... and start up again. It was moments that gave him undue sensations that made the bodacious bombshell of a boy broil in the bastion of being. Boy, that was a lot of B's, huh?
...But not now.
Now? Yeah, the jerk off was sitting on the kitchen counter with an ice pack on his face. Every so often, he'd flip the slab of frigid... whatever ice bags are... between the warmer side and the colder side.
The moron's face was swollen along the edge of his face besides his right eye. Wincing and scoffing at himself, the young Sterling Champion clad in only a pair of checkered pajama bottoms sighed and looked over at Hayden Clarke, who appeared in the doorway in her robe.
You'd think with such a vixen in his palm, this would bring him some glee. Some measure of solace for the idiotic feat he just accomplished. But no. When she walked in, trying in vain to contain her laughter under her hollow smile, Ripplemagne snarled...
Hayden Clarke:
"Oh, come on. You've got to find the irony in it. You have the highest win percentage in GEW history. No one can beat you. Yet... you managed to knock yourself out."
Ripplemagne:
"I did not get knocked out! I just... fell to the ground."
Still coasting in his own blanket of sweat across his entire rippled mid-section, the glisten along his vein-indulged muscle mass gave him all the more allure in this shot. On the other hand, the foxy Hayden Clarke erupted like a volcano in hysteria. Laughter began to echo throughout the room as her hand dropped from the flaps of her fluffy robe to reveal a rather bestowing loin of lingerie beneath. Unfortunately for us, we can only make out the material and any real goodies are lost upon us.
Hayden Clarke:
"Okay. Okay. So, take me through the chain of events again. You had just finished your abdominal training..."
Ripplemagne:
"And Eye of the Tiger came on my playlist, so I started shadow boxing to keep my heart rate up before I began my next regiment."
There was a bit of a scoff in his voice, but it seemed a bit exaggerated. As though he were intentionally attempting to appear distraught...
Hayden Clarke:
"And how exactly did you manage... that?"
As she pointed to his delicate fingers gripping the underside of the royal blue ice bag, the boy seemed to exhale with a sneer. The stretch of flesh around the left side of his lip arched up to his nostril, causing his lips to make the shave of a lance. As he only looked at her through the corner of his eyes, he seemed to mumble the next series of words.
Ripplemagne:
"And I... kinda... sorta... went for a flurry. I didn't have enough room to maneuver and accidentally punched myself in the side of the head."
More laughter permeates from the rosy lips of the young girl as Ripplemagne adjusts the way he's sitting to put his back... or rather, his shoulder... to her.
Hayden Clarke:
"Oh, c'mon. Don't be like that. You know I love when you make an ass of yourself."
A titter escapes her lips as she strolls over and puts a hand on his right shoulder while plopping her chin atop the other. From a frontal angle, her head may look like Iago on Jafar's shoulder. Adorable as it was, that would make Hayden a 'bird', right?
Ripplemagne don't want no pigeons? A pigeon is a girl that won't get no love from him. Well, I guess she's more of a parrot, but 'bird' more frequently than 'pigeon' is nowadays anyway. So... okay. Through the wonderful laws of slang, Hayden is a ho'.
Hayden Clarke:
"Only you could lose a fight to yourself. Hm... I wonder if you'd still be considered undefeated if you lost to yourself. It'd probably go under the draw column, no?"
There's a pause as Ripplemagne rocks his head and shoulders from side to side. The asinine question prompted a response from Ripplemagne, it seems.
Ripplemagne:
"Such a dilemma is equivocally solved by putting a notch in both the win and loss columns. As there is both a winner and a loser and no stalemate, it is implausible to jot it down under a draw. However, it is not out of the realm of logic and reason for one to win and lose simultaneously when having battle themselves."
Hayden Clarke:
"See, I would have never even thought of that, yet you strung it together in a matter of seconds. Where do you get this all from?"
It's true. As intelligent as Ripplemagne could be, he was a knuckle head. It was irrefutably so.
Ripplemagne:
"Straylia's panties and I had a rather heart felt discussion on the subject a week ago."
There was a bit of a sardonic gleam in his voice, but it was so deadpan that we can't even be sure. An imperceptible smirk issued on the face of Hayden Clarke over Ripplemagne's shoulder at this point though. A light bulb clicked above her head -- no, seriously, one was animated over her head in this shot -- and she knew just how to get Ripplemagne out of his faux funk.
Hayden Clarke:
"Are you sure it wasn't all of that porn you've been harboring? I mean, we've already seen how accurate Oliver's words are when correlated with you. He must be right about you teaching the kids just the right way to choke the chicken."
A huge "HA" escaped the lips of Ripplemagne as he leaped from the counter. The bag of... stuff that freezes in the freezer... slapped against the ground as Ripplemagne pointed to the ceiling in a dramatic pose. A grin appeared on the face of the company's trusted interviewer...
Ripplemagne:
"That spank-it-to-me-too-hard-daddy, Captain Caveman-looking crack pot disappointed the marvelous Ripplemagne like Barack Obama disappoints the American people. Here, the stupendous one was in his groove, under the impression that this harebrained fundamentalist yanking the wax from his oversized ears with his pinky... would provide the perspicacious Patriarch of Pretty with some episteme. Some... some fervor. I hoped, at minimum, that he'd have a counter point to trump me with."
Sitting back and watching the monster she just created with a grin, Hayden Clarke remained quiet as Ripplemagne went on a monologue...
Ripplemagne:
"Instead, all I got was a stretch of ad hominems in length that would make the credits of a silver screen cinemax as green as the Grinch. No, no! Jehovah forbid that Ollie respond to any scholastic probing of his obvious theological frailties. No, no..."
Pacing back and forth with a multitudinous, vivacious manner of speaking... it was clear that in spite of his theatrical rant, he was actually kind of amused.
Ripplemagne:
"Instead of explaining how the concept of ex cathedra was not, in fact, self-defeatist... he attempted to deride my visage. Of all people! The Ripplemagne's! The dude looks like the caveman from Phil of the Future with a collar. Have you seen the lad's eye brows?! Nigga look like George Whipple and Mr. Magorium crossed off and delivered the world's first anal baby.
By the way, for those of you at home who have not been in the ring with Oliver Creed, the smell coming off of him may just affirm that theory.
I know the 19th century Christians bathed only on Saturdays. And there's that whole nasty rumor about the Hasidic Jews only bathing on Saturdays. But, mon ami... do you abide by all of the laws in Leviticus? Madonna mia!"
A chuckle escapes Ripplemagne's lips as he makes it clear that he can go on all day, but decides not to. There's a pause as Ripplemagne contemplates whether or not he should, but ultimately, he confirms that he's done ragging on Oliver's appearance...
Ripplemagne:
"It's rather amusing that he imbues me with the attributes of ignorance when I went on a point by point analysis with every claim he's made, yet he? Ignored everything I said. Hint: Look up the etymology of the word 'ignorance'. Rather hypocritical, me thinks.
Furthermore, he makes the audacious claim that he can find every loop hole in what I've said... yet... he doesn't even find one. Not one. In fact, the entirety of his promo' consisted of him finding convenient ways to smokescreen and stone wall his way out of debating me. Clearly, the lad knows he's beaten and has no other recourse in this hemlock of wit than to use logical fallacies. Filibuster. Talk to make it appear as though he said something, when... in reality... he didn't.
It's hollow. Obviously, those Bible verses that I 'don't understand' are better understood by me than you as you've been thoroughly unable to provide a scintilla of a counter-response."
A chuckle escapes the boys wits as he is clearly loving the fact that someone who's prided themselves on their theological knowledge is on the run from a nineteen year old boy. At least, that's the mind frame he was in...
Ripplemagne:
"You asked me why I sin. But if you had any affinity for the scriptures, it would be abundantly clear to you that we all sin. Every last one of us. That, in of itself, is the reason for the gospels -- the sacrifice of Yeshua Ben Yosef. Id est, Jesus Christ. If any among us could truly be without sin, then the entire covenant goes out the window.
Obviously the whole concept of satire went over your head in correlation to the Big Brown Brazilian Booties Volume 3 skit, but even still, possession of such has no tie to sin. Biblically, there is no derision of pornography, in of itself. Lust, however, is in surplus in terms of biblical acknowledgment. But can you be so certain that I lust for the women on... this?"
Hoisting the copy of Big Brown Brazilian Booties Vol 3, Ripplemagne titters to himself.
Ripplemagne:
"Uh oh, Ollie! You have seen a hiney! You're going to Hell! Onoez! Oh... wait. What's that? You had no feelings of lust for her? What?
Oh, but... does it look nice to you? Surely it must. Wouldn't wanna be... gay, would you? Though, it might explain your fixation with my visage. Anyway, is it reasonable to presume that you can be attracted to something without wanting it, directly?
Affirmative. So to presume that I view such a video with desire for them would fall under the category of pointing out the speck of sawdust in my eye with no regards to the beam in yours, aye?"
Tossing the DVD off screen, Ripplemagne chuckles to himself as he flexes his pectoral muscles, mouthing the words 'That turn ya on, Ollie?' A snicker issues from his silky lips again as he continues...
Ripplemagne:
"You're right, though. Children shouldn't idolize me. Idolatry is among the worst conceivable sins for a Christian to commit. And I will never ask of my fans to idolize me.
I have no doubt that my Messiah is coming, Ollie. But you are not my Messiah. Or anyone's for that matter. Because if you believe in that pretty conglomeration of books known as the 'Bible', you'd know that there is only one Messiah. And to refer to yourself as the Messiah is what is known as 'idolatry'.
Believe it."
With a wink and a thumb and index finger extended point to the camera, the camera fades on Ripplemagne...
* * *
Fin.
* * *
Large eyes?
Small mouth?
Pointy chin?
lolwut?
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
24 hours.
There were only 24 hours until Ripplemagne was javelin'd into the Lion's Den. The heat was building. Despite being the underdog, many cited Ripplemagne as the odds on favorite to take the match home. Others went as far as to claim that Ripplemagne was "too good" for the Sterling division. Ripplemagne was the main character of this story! Or at least... that's what he established in his response to the odd James McCain. In fact... who better to go into a Lion's Den than the Lion of Global Extreme Wrestling, himself?
Sure, the majority of the people in this match were newbies, but that's where things became dangerous. With someone like Kameron Chase, all Ripplemagne had to do to get into his head was to pop in a tape and watch. And, realistically, this was more like a handicap match than a battle royale. Nine on one and Ripplemagne was among the most petite in the match.
The Matinée Movie Trailer, however, was still a fortified stronghold. A haven. A security blanket. Here, Ripplemagne was accompanied by Ahn, Miss Sarah, Hayden Clarke, The Tang, Dwight Mare and Bucky Skyler. And in the face of their anxiety, Ripplemagne relished the upcoming bout as though it were Rocky versus Apollo Creed. Call him crazy (he's crazy!), but challenge made him feel alive. He'd eat his pasta drenched in red pepper and tobasco just because the tingling on his tongue gave him a rush.
The quirky, champagne-haired youth's heart was like a rubicks cube in the hands of a master. It shifted in its own algorithms as his breath would subside... and start up again. It was moments that gave him undue sensations that made the bodacious bombshell of a boy broil in the bastion of being. Boy, that was a lot of B's, huh?
...But not now.
Now? Yeah, the jerk off was sitting on the kitchen counter with an ice pack on his face. Every so often, he'd flip the slab of frigid... whatever ice bags are... between the warmer side and the colder side.
The moron's face was swollen along the edge of his face besides his right eye. Wincing and scoffing at himself, the young Sterling Champion clad in only a pair of checkered pajama bottoms sighed and looked over at Hayden Clarke, who appeared in the doorway in her robe.
You'd think with such a vixen in his palm, this would bring him some glee. Some measure of solace for the idiotic feat he just accomplished. But no. When she walked in, trying in vain to contain her laughter under her hollow smile, Ripplemagne snarled...
Hayden Clarke:
"Oh, come on. You've got to find the irony in it. You have the highest win percentage in GEW history. No one can beat you. Yet... you managed to knock yourself out."
Ripplemagne:
"I did not get knocked out! I just... fell to the ground."
Still coasting in his own blanket of sweat across his entire rippled mid-section, the glisten along his vein-indulged muscle mass gave him all the more allure in this shot. On the other hand, the foxy Hayden Clarke erupted like a volcano in hysteria. Laughter began to echo throughout the room as her hand dropped from the flaps of her fluffy robe to reveal a rather bestowing loin of lingerie beneath. Unfortunately for us, we can only make out the material and any real goodies are lost upon us.
Hayden Clarke:
"Okay. Okay. So, take me through the chain of events again. You had just finished your abdominal training..."
Ripplemagne:
"And Eye of the Tiger came on my playlist, so I started shadow boxing to keep my heart rate up before I began my next regiment."
There was a bit of a scoff in his voice, but it seemed a bit exaggerated. As though he were intentionally attempting to appear distraught...
Hayden Clarke:
"And how exactly did you manage... that?"
As she pointed to his delicate fingers gripping the underside of the royal blue ice bag, the boy seemed to exhale with a sneer. The stretch of flesh around the left side of his lip arched up to his nostril, causing his lips to make the shave of a lance. As he only looked at her through the corner of his eyes, he seemed to mumble the next series of words.
Ripplemagne:
"And I... kinda... sorta... went for a flurry. I didn't have enough room to maneuver and accidentally punched myself in the side of the head."
More laughter permeates from the rosy lips of the young girl as Ripplemagne adjusts the way he's sitting to put his back... or rather, his shoulder... to her.
Hayden Clarke:
"Oh, c'mon. Don't be like that. You know I love when you make an ass of yourself."
A titter escapes her lips as she strolls over and puts a hand on his right shoulder while plopping her chin atop the other. From a frontal angle, her head may look like Iago on Jafar's shoulder. Adorable as it was, that would make Hayden a 'bird', right?
Ripplemagne don't want no pigeons? A pigeon is a girl that won't get no love from him. Well, I guess she's more of a parrot, but 'bird' more frequently than 'pigeon' is nowadays anyway. So... okay. Through the wonderful laws of slang, Hayden is a ho'.
Hayden Clarke:
"Only you could lose a fight to yourself. Hm... I wonder if you'd still be considered undefeated if you lost to yourself. It'd probably go under the draw column, no?"
There's a pause as Ripplemagne rocks his head and shoulders from side to side. The asinine question prompted a response from Ripplemagne, it seems.
Ripplemagne:
"Such a dilemma is equivocally solved by putting a notch in both the win and loss columns. As there is both a winner and a loser and no stalemate, it is implausible to jot it down under a draw. However, it is not out of the realm of logic and reason for one to win and lose simultaneously when having battle themselves."
Hayden Clarke:
"See, I would have never even thought of that, yet you strung it together in a matter of seconds. Where do you get this all from?"
It's true. As intelligent as Ripplemagne could be, he was a knuckle head. It was irrefutably so.
Ripplemagne:
"Straylia's panties and I had a rather heart felt discussion on the subject a week ago."
There was a bit of a sardonic gleam in his voice, but it was so deadpan that we can't even be sure. An imperceptible smirk issued on the face of Hayden Clarke over Ripplemagne's shoulder at this point though. A light bulb clicked above her head -- no, seriously, one was animated over her head in this shot -- and she knew just how to get Ripplemagne out of his faux funk.
Hayden Clarke:
"Are you sure it wasn't all of that porn you've been harboring? I mean, we've already seen how accurate Oliver's words are when correlated with you. He must be right about you teaching the kids just the right way to choke the chicken."
A huge "HA" escaped the lips of Ripplemagne as he leaped from the counter. The bag of... stuff that freezes in the freezer... slapped against the ground as Ripplemagne pointed to the ceiling in a dramatic pose. A grin appeared on the face of the company's trusted interviewer...
Ripplemagne:
"That spank-it-to-me-too-hard-daddy, Captain Caveman-looking crack pot disappointed the marvelous Ripplemagne like Barack Obama disappoints the American people. Here, the stupendous one was in his groove, under the impression that this harebrained fundamentalist yanking the wax from his oversized ears with his pinky... would provide the perspicacious Patriarch of Pretty with some episteme. Some... some fervor. I hoped, at minimum, that he'd have a counter point to trump me with."
Sitting back and watching the monster she just created with a grin, Hayden Clarke remained quiet as Ripplemagne went on a monologue...
Ripplemagne:
"Instead, all I got was a stretch of ad hominems in length that would make the credits of a silver screen cinemax as green as the Grinch. No, no! Jehovah forbid that Ollie respond to any scholastic probing of his obvious theological frailties. No, no..."
Pacing back and forth with a multitudinous, vivacious manner of speaking... it was clear that in spite of his theatrical rant, he was actually kind of amused.
Ripplemagne:
"Instead of explaining how the concept of ex cathedra was not, in fact, self-defeatist... he attempted to deride my visage. Of all people! The Ripplemagne's! The dude looks like the caveman from Phil of the Future with a collar. Have you seen the lad's eye brows?! Nigga look like George Whipple and Mr. Magorium crossed off and delivered the world's first anal baby.
By the way, for those of you at home who have not been in the ring with Oliver Creed, the smell coming off of him may just affirm that theory.
I know the 19th century Christians bathed only on Saturdays. And there's that whole nasty rumor about the Hasidic Jews only bathing on Saturdays. But, mon ami... do you abide by all of the laws in Leviticus? Madonna mia!"
A chuckle escapes Ripplemagne's lips as he makes it clear that he can go on all day, but decides not to. There's a pause as Ripplemagne contemplates whether or not he should, but ultimately, he confirms that he's done ragging on Oliver's appearance...
Ripplemagne:
"It's rather amusing that he imbues me with the attributes of ignorance when I went on a point by point analysis with every claim he's made, yet he? Ignored everything I said. Hint: Look up the etymology of the word 'ignorance'. Rather hypocritical, me thinks.
Furthermore, he makes the audacious claim that he can find every loop hole in what I've said... yet... he doesn't even find one. Not one. In fact, the entirety of his promo' consisted of him finding convenient ways to smokescreen and stone wall his way out of debating me. Clearly, the lad knows he's beaten and has no other recourse in this hemlock of wit than to use logical fallacies. Filibuster. Talk to make it appear as though he said something, when... in reality... he didn't.
It's hollow. Obviously, those Bible verses that I 'don't understand' are better understood by me than you as you've been thoroughly unable to provide a scintilla of a counter-response."
A chuckle escapes the boys wits as he is clearly loving the fact that someone who's prided themselves on their theological knowledge is on the run from a nineteen year old boy. At least, that's the mind frame he was in...
Ripplemagne:
"You asked me why I sin. But if you had any affinity for the scriptures, it would be abundantly clear to you that we all sin. Every last one of us. That, in of itself, is the reason for the gospels -- the sacrifice of Yeshua Ben Yosef. Id est, Jesus Christ. If any among us could truly be without sin, then the entire covenant goes out the window.
Obviously the whole concept of satire went over your head in correlation to the Big Brown Brazilian Booties Volume 3 skit, but even still, possession of such has no tie to sin. Biblically, there is no derision of pornography, in of itself. Lust, however, is in surplus in terms of biblical acknowledgment. But can you be so certain that I lust for the women on... this?"
Hoisting the copy of Big Brown Brazilian Booties Vol 3, Ripplemagne titters to himself.
Ripplemagne:
"Uh oh, Ollie! You have seen a hiney! You're going to Hell! Onoez! Oh... wait. What's that? You had no feelings of lust for her? What?
Oh, but... does it look nice to you? Surely it must. Wouldn't wanna be... gay, would you? Though, it might explain your fixation with my visage. Anyway, is it reasonable to presume that you can be attracted to something without wanting it, directly?
Affirmative. So to presume that I view such a video with desire for them would fall under the category of pointing out the speck of sawdust in my eye with no regards to the beam in yours, aye?"
Tossing the DVD off screen, Ripplemagne chuckles to himself as he flexes his pectoral muscles, mouthing the words 'That turn ya on, Ollie?' A snicker issues from his silky lips again as he continues...
Ripplemagne:
"You're right, though. Children shouldn't idolize me. Idolatry is among the worst conceivable sins for a Christian to commit. And I will never ask of my fans to idolize me.
I have no doubt that my Messiah is coming, Ollie. But you are not my Messiah. Or anyone's for that matter. Because if you believe in that pretty conglomeration of books known as the 'Bible', you'd know that there is only one Messiah. And to refer to yourself as the Messiah is what is known as 'idolatry'.
Believe it."
With a wink and a thumb and index finger extended point to the camera, the camera fades on Ripplemagne...
* * *
Fin.
* * *
