That's right . .
Malach has invented a Machine that can tap into your mind while sleeping and broadcast your dreams on a television. While playing around with it last night, I decided to peep into the Angry Piper's dreams.
All I got was a still picture, which is worth a thousand words.
Interesting no? Palmer, Choas Dragoon, please shut the door this time when you masturbate to this picture, Mom doesn't want to see that again.
I am Malach, the reincarnation of Edison
So many things to tell, Zangief not know where to start! Zangief back at last from long World Tour of Street Fighters! Zangief fight Rubber Band Man Dhalsim. Zangief stretch him out long and thin like linguini noodle then use him as jump rope. Don’t worry about Dhalsim. He bleed a little, but he bounce back. Zangief wad him up in ball when done.
Get it? Zangief make joke!
Even though Zangief lose to Ken’s Flaming Dragon Punch (again), Zangief get some mad bitches, yo! Zangief knock boots with many Street Fighter groupies. They bleed a little when Zangief done, but they ok.
The other day Zangief go to Zangief’s friend Malach the Merciless’s house with Zangief’s other friend The Angry Piper. Angry Piper say he want to pay Malach a surprise visit, and Zangief love surprises! Zangief and Angry Piper find Malach in small building behind Malach’s house. Malach call it his “art studio”. Angry Piper knock on door. “Open up,” say Angry Piper.
“Uh…who’s there?” Malach’s voice come from behind door. He squeak like female mouse.
“It’s me, Piper,” say Angry Piper.
“Oh…uh…hold on a minute,” say Malach. Zangief tired of waiting, so Zangief grab doors and pull them open. Zangief tear doors off hinges by accident! “Surprise!” Zangief yell.
Inside, Zangief find out Malach is true artist! Malach hard at work painting three naked men! All three scream in fear of Zangief and try to climb over couch, but all are covered with slippery oil and fall down in big pile on floor like Keystone Cops!
“Ho Ho Ho!!!” Zangief laugh.
One of Malach’s naked friends poke head up from behind couch. “Holy shit—it looks like the Russian has a huge papaya down his shorts!” he say.
“Oh, Christ,” say Angry Piper. Then naked men giggle like girls. Zangief consider giving them all Spinning Piledriver, but that might damage Malach’s painting, so Zangief decide not to.
“Why didn’t you call first?” Malach scream at Angry Piper.
“Because, Malach,” say Zangief, “Angry Piper want to surprise Malach!”
“Surprise,” Angry Piper say, not sounding excited at all. He cover eyes with hands. “Uh, maybe we should leave Malach alone with the Pet Shop Boys here, Zangief.”
Just then Zangief see something very cool. Zangief see bullwhip sitting on chair, and think of American hero Indiana Jones, who is really just ripoff of old Russian hero Slomensk Petrovitch! Zangief grab bullwhip and almost drop it, handle so greasy! Then Zangief pretend he is Slomensk Petrovitch and start whipping like crazy! Malach’s naked friends try to run away, but they so oily all they do is fall down over and over. One even start crying. It so funny!
“Ho Ho Ho!!!” Zangief laugh again.
Soon Zangief lose grip on bullwhip and wipe greasy hand on chest hair. Malach’s naked friends slip and slide out the door.
“Please don’t tell anyone about this!” Malach beg Piper and Zangief.
“Okeydoke!” Zangief give Malach thumbs-up sign.
“Whatever,” Angry Piper say. He still covering eyes.
Zangief think Malach not want to reveal naked masterpiece painting until it finished, so Zangief not tell anyone. After all, Zangief love surprises!
I was determined not to spend this past New Year’s Eve the way I had the previous year, staring through a drunken haze at stroke-afflicted Dick Clark mumbling and slurring his way through a backwards ten-count as the ball dropped over Times Square. I jumped in my Hyundai Accent, popped some Real McKenzies in the tape deck and weaved my way over to the palatial estate of Dr. Robert J. Murk, where, I knew, I was certain to find a Great Gatsby-esque party in full swing.
Or so I thought.
Instead I was met at the gate by my bug-headed acquaintance, Dr. Mantodea, who had just opened the door to his metallic green Cooper-S. I stumbled out of my car clutching a handle of Beefeater and staggered toward him.
“Mantis!” I yelled. “Happy New Year, you old son-of-a-bitch!”
Dr. Mantodea regarded me with inscrutable, insectoid eyes. “There have not been a sufficient number of ‘Fuck Yous’ uttered since the dawn of time to properly greet you, Piper. I hope you die.” He got in his car and drove away before I could say anything else.
I made my way to the door, where I was greeted by Murk’s stodgy English butler. Rumor has it Murk has his own Academy of Servitude somewhere in Europe, from which only the most disingenuous, wheedling, sycophantic and servile are chosen to be his servants. This one betrayed none of these qualities, to me at least. His lip curled in a sneer as he beheld my kilt.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” I agreed.
“The doctor is in the conservatory. At his organ.”
I snickered. He glared.
“This is a dry house, sir. Your…beverage…must remain outside.”
I thrust the bottle into his hands, gin sloshed over his cufflinks. “I’ll find my own way, Jeeves.”
I wandered around the first floor for what seemed like hours, following the crashing, thunderous notes of a somehow familiar tune. At last I found Murk in an expansive marble hall, seated before a towering medieval pipe organ. He pounded at the keys in a frenzy, causing the organ to moan, wail and scream in agony. I listened for a while, fascinated, until at last Murk collapsed across the keys, spent.
“Wow,” I said.
Murk lifted his head beneath his bowler hat and blinked a few times. “Ah, Piper. Forgive me if I do not rise. I was just playing my favorite composition. It always leaves me emotionally and physically drained.”
“What was it?”
“The most beautiful piece of music I have ever heard.” A solitary tear rolled down Dr.Murk’s face. “It’s called The Curly Shuffle. Anyway, what brings you here?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, Murk. I thought I’d spread some cheer.”
“How trite. I suppose you have a New Year’s resolution as well.””Not yet.”
“Well, you should resolve to change your kilt. It smells of stale gin and balls.”
Murk was clearly not in the holiday spirit. Did I mention I was carrying my bagipes? Well, I was. I lifted the pipes to my shoulder and fitted the bag under my arm. I blew into the blowpipe and inflated the bag. The drones began to hum in harmony. My fingers moved along the chanter, picking out the melody of Auld Lang Syne.
Murk stared, enraptured. Slowly, he rose from his bench. It was working! Thus encouraged, I continued to play as he walked slowly over to me, a spellbound look upon his face. I realized then hat Murk had never really heard me play. He must be so impressed.
At last he stood before me. He balled up his fist and punched me as hard as he could. In the groin.
My pipes abruptly stopped with a shrill squeak. I doubled over. “Ow! My groin!”
Dr. Murk stared at me coldly. “Do not ever—ever—play that hideous thing in my presence again.”
I felt nauseous. My gin was threatening to make a return appearance all over Murk’s marble floor. “I need your bathroom,” I gasped. “Now.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “You know the way.”
I didn’t; Murk’s house seemed to have an ever-changing and endless number of rooms and passages, different each time I visited. I stumbled out into the corridor and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. When I could breathe again I wandered up a circular flight of stairs upholstered in a Persian pattern. At the top I opened the first door I saw, hoping it was a bathroom.
It was not.
The scent of jasmine and lotus blossoms assailed my prodigious nostrils. I pushed my way through hanging silken sheets. From somewhere deep within this ethereal seraglio, a dusky voice purred. “Oh, Robert,” it said, every syllable drenched in promise and longing, “you came at last.”
Most men would have felt an immediate rush of lust at that succubus’s voice. But I am not most men. I knew better. I knew how much danger I was in, for I knew who it was that spoke.
I had unwittingly blundered into the bedchamber of the smokin’ hot Asian wife of Dr. Murk!
I moved aside another silken curtain, hoping against hope to find the exit before she noticed me. Instead, the veil parted to reveal that same beautiful and deadly woman I sought to elude. She lay upon a luxurious bed, faced away from me, her body draped in a gossamer sheet, one shoulder exposed and bare, revealing a tattoo. Despite my fervent desire to escape unnoticed, I was irresistibly drawn forward to peer at the tattoo. I squinted. I could just make it out.
It was a bowler hat.
Cold sweat broke out on my back. I inched backwards as stealthily as possible, but at that moment I stepped on a large bullfrog that had somehow found its way into Murk’s bedroom.
“RIBBIT,” said the bullfrog. Then it died.
Mrs. Dr. Murk’s head swiveled around, causing the sheet that draped her body to shift a little. Through sheer willpower I forced myself to stare only at her face. Our eyes locked, and in that moment, I was certain of one thing: I was going to die. I turned and ran as fast as I could, tearing silk sheets down in my headlong rush to the door.
She was after me in a flash, one hand clutching the sheet around her naked body, the other reaching for something lethal. Two ornate—and very sharp—hairpins embedded themselves in the wall a fraction of an inch from where my head was moments before. By some miracle I found the door and tore it open. I plunged into the corridor as something big and heavy shattered against the door.
I bolted down the stairs, feet barely touching the surface of each step, kilt billowing behind me. Half a dozen throwing stars thunked into the wall in my wake. Finally I reached the bottom and ran for the conservatory door.
It was locked.
I had little time to panic before Mrs. Dr. Murk landed behind me, her bare feet making not a whisper of sound. One hand still clutched the sheet, the other now held a very long and very sharp sword. She smiled. I felt my bladder let go.
I ran, expecting at any minute to feel the blade plunge into my back. I reached the end of the corridor and risked a look back. She was walking slowly forward, as if she had all the time in the world. I tore open the nearest door and ducked inside.
I was in a library. “Ah, Piper,” Dr. Murk said. “It seems you found me.”
He sat in a leather chair, a chessboard resting on his lap. He had changed into a velvet smoking jacket complete with ascot, and cradled a Meerschaum pipe in one hand. His ever-present bowler hat sat upon his head. From somewhere in the room came subdued music; Rachmaninoff, I thought.
I looked for a lock, but the door didn’t appear to have one. I tipped over the nearest bookcase, barricading the door behind me with a terrific crash. Dr. Murk raised an eyebrow.
Just then, a full three feet of steel—Mrs. Dr. Murk’s sword— was thrust through the door.
“You seem to have upset my wife, Piper” Dr. Murk said. “Perhaps you’d better explain yourself.”
I fell to my knees and sobbed out the whole sad tale. Dr. Murk listened in silence while his wife’s efforts to gain entry to the library intensified. The door was rapidly becoming a splintered ruin. When I finished, Murk sighed and stood, placing the chessboard on a nearby table and returning his still-smoldering pipe to the rack.
“So let me get this straight, Piper,” he said. “You came to my home uninvited, offended my ears with your horrid instrument, entered the private chambers of my wife, ogled her while she was in a state of undress, murdered her pet bullfrog, urinated on my carpet, toppled a Louis XIV mahogany bookcase and have now been instrumental in causing the destruction of my library door. I’m afraid there’s no hope for you, Piper. I’m going to have to shoot you now.” He leveled an antique flintlock pistol at my head and pulled the trigger.
It clicked on an empty chamber.
“Confound it. I forgot I already shot someone today. Be a good fellow and wait while I reload, will you?”
I don’t know how I made it outside, but I even managed to snag my gin bottle on the way out. One thing is certain: next year, if he’s still alive, I’ll be watching Dick Clark.
Carnie Wilson's War
By Dr. Murk
Carnie Wilson: Fat
So, I went to Vinnie's Video to rent a movie. I was looking for that new one about how Carnie Wilson ate the Russian Army in Afghanistan. I asked Vinnie, because I could not find it. I looked in the drama, heavy chicks, and porno sections ( seeing Angry Piper in the drama section, crying while he looked at the cover of The Cider House Rules).
So, Vinnie says, "It ain't in yet."
I says, "When's it coming in?"
He says, "You gotta hold on for one more day."
"But I got this movie review to do," I says.
"Hold on, indeed, chums!" The Angry Piper burst in between us. "I know about this movie which you speak. I have... seen it." We gaped in agony. No. Surprise? Yes. That's it.
"Well, old friend," I said, "It seems that we have crossed paths after a long time at just this moment for a reason."
"You mean since we crossed paths in the drama section a few minutes ago?" he asked.
"Indeed," I said. "Say, why were you crying anyways?"
"Oh," he said with a wistful smile, "I was caught by a sad memory of when I once knew a young girl such as seen in that movie. Beautiful. Striking Asian features. She smashed all of my bottles of Cider and made me walk on the glass."
"Sounds like my wife," I said.
"It was," he said. "Anywho, no. No I cannot help you write this review. My affection for Carnie would taint... taint... mmmmmm... Carlie taint... ahem. Um, it would bring the full love and devotion for Carlie into the light of day. Plus, I hav this whole date with destiny tonight."
"No problem," I said.
"FATHER!!!!" he shouted, "THE SLEEPER HAS AWOKEN!!!!!" He ran headlong through the display window, into route six traffic, took a few bumps from the cars and trucks and rolled into an open sewer pipe.
So, I'm going to review the movie without his help and without the movie.
First off, this movie is heavy. It's full of delicious fun. The camera work is a feast for the eyes. Get the large popcorn because it's a big big movie. You have to see it wide screen. I give it two tons up.
The End.
Recently, I posted about how some douche was ripping of my content and posting it on eBaum's World as his own. For the full story, go here.
I am happy to say that eBaum's World has removed the content from their site. It took a long time and there was zero communication from them (or the thief) despite repeated emails, but in the end, they did it.
Plagiarism really sucks. Thanks, eBaum's World.
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Two well-dressed gentlemen sit at separate, yet very close tables in what's obviously a fine dining restaurant. They face the camera. A big, juicy hamburger is placed in front of the gentleman on the left. He immediately reaches for a bottle of A-1, and commences a liberal application of said condiment to the top of his burger.
"Excuse me," says the guy on the right, "A-1 on a hamburger?"
"Yeah," the guy on the left replies, obviously impressed with his own ingenuity.
"That's a good idea," says the guy on the right. "Do you mind if I borrow that for a minute?"
"Sure," says the guy on the left. He reaches for the bottle of A-1 to pass it to his new acquaintance. Meanwhile the guy on the right takes the hamburger and eats it, leaving the guy on the left holding the bottle, feeling awkward, and looking silly. Plus, he's short a hamburger.
Let me tell you how this little scenario would change if I were the guy on the left. If I--out of the goodness ofmy heart and an earnest desire to pass on the joys of A-1 Steak Sauce--turned around and found this pompous fuck eating my hamburger, I would stand up and break my chair over his fucking head. I would smash the A-1 bottle against the side of the table and stick the jagged edge into his fucking neck. I'd probably ram his face into the table a few times, then drag his ass out of the restaurant by his hair and curb-stomp the gray-haired fucker so he wouldn't be eating any hamburgers--or any solid food, for that matter--for a long fucking time. Then I'd pick him up by his balls and throw him through the nearest windshield.
No one's gonna make me look silly.
Well Check this out
Here is the Piper with his "life partner" Hobbs von Wackamole playing the flute.
Amazing now, outdoes there first video with them and the guitar!
I am Malach and I bring the truth!
Zangief thinks you should, too.It's really no big secret that I've been missing in action lately. Aside from a few comments here and there, I've been a ghost in the machine for a few months now. If you've noticed, I'm touched. If not, that's fine too.
No, I won't go into why I haven't been around. It's not relevant. But I will tell you all what's new in Piper-land. I have a new blogpost on the blog and some new fiction at Angrypiper.com. Oh, and I was plagiarized. Again.
First, I have my first real blog post in months. It chronicles Day 6 of my Ireland trip: The Ring of Kerry. If travel blogging isn't your thing, or if you're sick of hearing about my trip to Ireland that's taking me forever to chronicle, then skip it. If you have enjoyed past installments and/or just like reading stories of me pissing off my brother in Ireland, check it out.
Second, even though I have been neglecting my blog, I've been working hard in other areas. I've decided, against my better judgement and despite what you'll read below, to post some of my fiction online. I call this series Conversations with Stephanie, and it's more-or-less something I'm writing as an experiment. Feel free to look it over if you haven't already. The first three installments have been up for a few weeks now, on my brand-new Fiction page.
Now, on to the plagiarism. A few months back I read something on Sara Sue's blog that basically said that if you post content online, it's not a question of whether or not you will be plagiarized, it's a question of when. I was intrigued, and so I visited Copyscape, which is one hell of a great website that looks for copies of your material on the Internet. I discovered that one of my book reviews was basically stolen; some staff reporter from the St. Thomas Source, a newspaper down in the island of the same name, lifted about 100 words or so verbatim from my review, published it as his own work and collected a paycheck from it. This annoyed me, and if you like you can read all about it here.
Fast forward to the present. Those who have visited my site may recall I have several Angry Rants available for your perusal and hopefully, amusement. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that this rant has made it's way onto EBaum's World. Go ahead. Compare the two. I'll wait.
Looks awfully similar, doesn't it?
You'll notice it's in the profile of a fellow who calls himself Hawks81. I am not Hawks81. I do not know Hawks81, nor have I ever given him (or her) permission to publish my stuff. The most annoying thing about this is not only did Hawks81 steal my rant, he didn't even bother to alter the many references to The Angry Piper contained therein.
So, I registered for EBaum's world (as angrypiper, of course), and sent this fellow a letter requesting he remove the rant. Since he hasn't been online in a long time, I can only assume he hasn't received it. I also contacted EBaum's World via email and informed them they have copyrighted material on their site and requested they remove it. So far no response, but I'm optimistic; it's only been a couple of days.
Both times people have stolen my stuff (that I know about), friends have pointed out that it's kind of a backhanded compliment, because someone must think my writing is worth stealing. I guess, in a way, I should take it as such and feel flattered.
But I don't. I take it as a backhand. An insult. In the first case, someone profited by my work. In this latest case, while he hasn't profited by it, someone basically presented it as his own. He did not link to my rant. He ripped it from my site and pasted it in his profile uncredited. Oh, and lest I forget, currently there's a "contest" of sorts going on at EBaum's world where the best (i.e. funniest) rants will be selected and posted in a special area of the site for public accolade.
EBaum's world gets a lot of traffic, and that's potentially a lot of online exposure for my writing. Exposure that could not only benefit Angrypiper.com, but indirectly benefit Third Option Media as well. I'm not saying my rant is likely to win, but if it did, I wouldn't know fuck-all about it. But boy, that Hawks81 guy would sure look clever and witty.
The Wand of Wonder is a home to many talented and creative people. I urge anyone who cares about his or her online material to use Copyscape or a related search service and make certain your stuff isn't getting stolen. Christopher Morris, I'm looking in your direction; also at folks like Malach, who has already found his artwork being used without his permission, CJOwen and Ben Byrd, who write interesting fiction, and the Cap'n, who is reponsible for some seriously hilarious shit.
Fuck Plagiarism.
It’s official. I’ve got a scar. My face is permanently disfigured.
I blame Eve for this. After all, she bought me a razor that wasn’t sharp enough, so I had to switch to one that was—one that scarred me. Thanks to her, my dream of being an Abercrombie & Fitch model is now permanently shattered.
If I had a nickel for every time Eve has ruined my life, I could retire today.
Eve, you just suck.
As you can see from the many photos of me that grace the Internet, The Angry Piper is one good-looking son-of-a-bitch. Last week, something happened that threatened to mar my beauty forever. As many of you may know, I shave with a straight razor, and it’s my opinion that anyone who doesn’t is a flaming pussy, much like Malach. (I'd say much like Dr. Murk, but I wouldn't dare call Murk a flaming pussy if he was dressed in a cat costume and set on fire.)
Some of you may recognize Old Sharpy, my first straight razor, at the top of the picture above. The next one down is a beautiful 5/8”, very similar to Old Sharpy and in fact made by the same company, Dovo. This was a birthday gift from my old friend Eve, who spent way too much fucking money on me as usual.
Old Sharpy certainly lives up to his name, but, alas, he doesn’t get much use any more. I’ve discovered I like wider razors. My favorite— the one I shave with almost all the time—is the third one down, a spike-tip 7/8” Wade & Butcher I paid six bucks for at a yard sale, then lovingly restored and honed it to, well, razor-sharpness. (The last razor is another example of my predilection for shaving with things that could conceivably be used to split wood, another 7/8”, but with a slightly different blade shape. )
I have been shaving straight for a year or so now, and up until last week I managed to avoid any serious mishaps. Last Sunday I decided I would try out Eve’s birthday gift. Contrary to what I first believed when I bought Old Sharpy, no razor is shave-ready out of the box. I honed up my new razor until it felt sharp enough, lathered up, and went to town. After one swipe, it was obvious that I hadn’t honed it enough, as it was pulling my whiskers rather than cutting them. So I rinsed the blade, folded it up, and grabbed my favorite W&B to finish the job. I shaved about ¾ of my face before I decided I would switch hands and shave the left side of my face with my left hand. As strange as this may sound this is actually a very desirable skill to learn, as otherwise I would have to reverse the razor in an awkward grip to shave the left side with my right hand. Plus, I would consider it cheating.
Once, when stropping the W&B prior to shaving, I accidentally reversed the blade direction and neatly sliced through about ¼” of the leather strop. Any worries periodically entertained that my razors aren’t sharp enough are, quite simply, ridiculous. If it can slice cleanly through cured leather, it should come as no surprise that holding it at the wrong angle relative to your skin is a bad idea. I barely dragged the razor an inch before sinking the blade solidly into my left cheek.
Your face is full of blood vessels. When cut, the face bleeds an awful lot. Mine is no exception.
So, after I cleaned myself up as best I could (alcohol, triple antibiotic ointment, gauze and surgical tape), I resolved not to shave until the wound had healed, as I didn’t want to open the cut again and scar my purty face. So, for the next eight days, I did the unthinkable. I let my beard grow.
I loathe facial hair. Particularly my own. After 3 days it began to itch. After 6 days my skin began to break out beneath the hair. Yesterday, Day 8, I could stand it no longer. Although the scab hasn’t healed from the initial cut, I broke out the W&B and mowed my face until it was as smooth as Hojo’s pubes.
The good news is the scab is healing nicely and I’m unlikely to have a scar. The better news is my face is once again clean-shaven.
And I learned a very valuable lesson: never shave drunk.
Kidding.
The WoW wishes you all Happy Holidays
To the contributers who make this popular, the readers, and anyone else. Happy Holidays. Now don't get jealous, I got a special gift for the Angry Piper . . . For you next thread on Who You Want to Do the Sex With . . . I present your love, Toyi, expecially dressed for you:
Courtesy of Siouxsie Sioux.
Scary that Murk, Malach and I all know the words.
3. Famke Janssen
Look at this picture. Just look at it. If I still need to explain myself, I cannot help you. You obviously love cock.
4. Catherine Bell
However, not even her incredible hotness can entice me to watch JAG.
5. Jennifer Tilly
Yes. For exactly the reasons you think.
Bonus: Queen Latifah
Is anyone who knows me at all surprised by this?
Hey Malach, how many of these CDs do you own?
BEST VIDEO EVER!!!!
The only song worth listening to from The Lost Boys Soundtrack. Michael Hutchins, Malach and I sorely miss you.
Think this guy idolized Jim Morrison much?
Danny Elfman is a fucking genius.
I had a lot of sex to this CD back in 1990. I would have had a lot of sex to it when it came out, but I didn't actually have sex until 1990. One of the best, most underrated voices in contemporary music.
OK, so they don't want the video embedded. You can look at it here instead.
This song will forever remind me of Alice Fangueiro. Not that anyone aside from Malach will know who that is.
Three guesses why I love this song. Hint: it rhymes with "Magpipes".
I still love all of these songs. Anyone in high school in the 1980's was singing along. Admit it.
2. Salma Hayek: Speaking of tits, I sure love this picture. I can't believe I forgot about her the first time around.
3. Amy Winehouse: To all the guys out there, I ask you: Could you just imagine?
4. Iron Chef Cat Cora: Oh, hell yes. And she's way sexier than Mario Batali.
5. P J Harvey: Probably the only woman Malach and I would fight over, like Kirk and Spock in "Amok Time", complete with dramatic music and sharp, pointy sticks. More than anyone else on either list, I FUCKING LOVE THIS WOMAN.
Those who know me may be shocked by the exclusion of any big girls. You may ask: is it possible The Angry Piper is changing his tastes? Fuck no. I'm still all about the big girls. But there are very few famous big girls, and fewer still that are attractive.
And don't worry, Toyi: you're still my rock & roll fantasy.
First: thanks bunches to Sara Sue. You’ll find out why in a minute.
About two years ago, I did a review of Peter Schaffer’s Equus for my site. You can read it here if you like; it’s not long. My motive for writing this review—indeed, my motive for writing all my reviews—was to inform and recommend literary works that I personally find enjoyable, thought-provoking and worthwhile. I did this in the hopes that the reviews would spark interesting conversation. I also did it for free.
I was blog-hopping this weekend, and I swung by Sara Says like I always do on or around Friday. While I was disappointed that I didn’t find what I look for every week (it’s been postponed), I did find a link to this post, all about content theft, copyright infringement, and how to protect yourself from same. So, thanks to Sara for posting the link; and thanks to Mike, whoever he is, for sending it to Sara, so she could pass it on to everyone looking or free boob pictures.
I remember Malach had an issue a year or so ago with someone displaying his artwork without his permission. I decided to take Lorelle’s advice and see if anyone had been ripping me off, so I went to Copyscape and started typing in webpage URLs from Angrypiper.com. I went through about nine or so, until I found what I was looking for. You see, it seems that last year, on the island of St. Thomas, USVI, a production of Equus made the rounds. It fell to the St. Thomas Source to cover the story. Based on what I’ve been able to determine, the “Source staff” who was assigned to do the job lifted a little less than a hundred words from the book review originally posted on Hill TV, word for word, without my permission. You can see for yourself here.
I find it very easy to imagine this job being handed off to someone who doesn’t normally cover entertainment news, perhaps an intern; someone who probably had no idea what the play was about but had to write a review. Hence the generic “Source staff” byline. Rather than read the play himself (something that would probably take the average literate person a whole two hours to do) or even rent the movie (again, two hours max with no reading invlolved), he decides to hit the web for a synopsis. “Source staff” Googles “Equus review” and gets my site. He figures Angrypiper.com for a small vanity site (which it more or less is), and he figures the traffic is probably low (actually, it’s higher than you’d think), so the chances of discovery are minimal. He’s right; I probably never would have noticed it if not for Sara Sue’s link.
It should be noted that I am ignoring Lorelle’s advice right now by posting anything about this before attempting to resolve this issue. But I don’t expect much in the way of resolution. The St. Thomas Source probably has a small circulation (not counting, obviously, the Internet). Besides, the page is full of dead image links and probably isn’t visited very often, and since the production ended a year ago, it hardly seems relevant, does it?
It does to me. Understand: when I first started posting book reviews, I pretty much expected “uncredited excerpts” of them to wind up on term papers and stuff like that. What really bothers me about this is not so much that “Source staff” stole my work without asking and published it as his own. (Although that does bother me a lot; if he had asked, I probably would have given permission, and contacting me is easy. My mailto link is on every page of my website.) What bothers me is “Source staff”, last time I checked, was a job description, kind of like “staff reporter”. Which means that in all likelihood, he got a paycheck for the review, a significant part of which I wrote. Call me wacky, but I feel that if anyone should get paid for my work, it should be me.
Here’s what I’m going to do. First, I plan on emailing the editor of the St. Thomas Source to inform him that whoever “Source staff” is, they are guilty of plagiarism, as they have falsely misrepresented another’s work as their own and have profited by it. He did mention the “essay” at Hill TV, but said it was written by the playwright, which is not only completely wrong, it displays a level of irresponsibility and amateurism shocking in a newspaper, even a small one (especially a newspaper who calls itself ‘The Source’). Hopefully even small newspapers have a zero-tolerance policy on that. I don’t expect any financial reimbursement. I just want them to be aware of it.
Second, “Source staff” has ensured that I will never, as I had previously planned, publish one word of my fiction online. I refer to my serious writing endeavors. I will still, from time to time, publish various Tales of the WoW on the Wand of Wonder, so don’t fret. But if I put my heart and soul into a story only to have it stolen and posted as someone else’s, I’ll turn into the Hulk, and I’m already angry enough.
One more thing. I only got through about one-third of my web pages before Copyscape wouldn’t let me search anymore. They limit you to ten searches per domain per month, unless you pay for more. I didn’t search for any of my blogposts. I’m not even sure how to do that, since my blog is still hosted by Blogger. I didn’t get through all my Book Reviews, and I didn’t even start searching for my Angry Rants. But I will.
I wonder how much more of my stuff—and yours—is out there.
Just before the Garden of Eden officially opened for business, God approached Adam and Eve.
"Hey guys", said God, "I'm about to light the fuse on this whole Creation thing, and I just have a few details to iron out with you two regarding men and women."
"Shoot," said Eve.
"Yeah, go ahead,"said Adam.
"Well," said God, "here's the thing. I've been thinking about it, and I've come up with this: there should be some key differences between the two of you, otherwise I should have just made one, know what I mean?"
"Sounds reasonable," said Adam.
"Sure does," said Eve.
"OK, so I've come up with a list here. Who wants to be stronger?"
"I'll be stronger," said Adam.
"Fine with me," said Eve.
"OK," said God, crossing 'strength' off his list "who wants to be able to bear children?"
"I want that, too," said Adam.
"Hey-that's not fair!" said Eve.
"She's right," God said, crossing 'childbearing' off his list. "You got one, so she gets one. It's only fair."
"Whatever," said Adam, sullenly.
"OK, which one wants the ability to pee standing up?" God asked.
"Oooooh!!! Mememememe!!!!!" Adam raised his hand and jumped up and down. Eve rolled her eyes.
"OK, it's all yours," God said, crossing off 'pee standing up' from his list.
"Ha!" Adam said to Eve. "Do you know how cool this is gonna be? I can pee anywhere I want. I don't have to worry about ever finding a bathroom. It's gonna be awesome! I rule! You suck!!!"
"OK, Eve," said God, checking off the last item on his list. "That leaves 'multiple orgasms' to you."
Who is that?
Well it seem PrePon was quick and caught our old Angry Piper at his weird Star Wars Convention for Anme Fairymen. Check this pic she sent me!
I am Malach exposing all the WoWees!
Currently my blog is a running chronicle of my trip to Ireland, so I couldn't post this there. I received this as a bulletin on MySpace. I have never sent out a bulletin since I got my MySpace account( I see no reason why people I don't know should receive my junk mail), but this one made me laugh a little, so I'm posting it here.
It's title: Can you answer 51 questions about the 1st person on your top friends list?
1) What's their first name?
Malach.
(He can tell you his name if he wants.)
2) Does he or she have a boyfriend/girlfriend?
He has a lovely wife.
3) Are they male of female?
Malach is male. His wife is female.
4) How old is the person?
35
5) have they ever cooked for you?
Not unless you count warming up pizza or opening a bag of chips cooking.
6) Is this person older than you?
yes
8) When was the last time you thought about them?
Every time he sends me something stupid. In other words, about 2 minutes ago.
9) Are you related to this person?
No
10) Are you really close to him/her?
We're good friends.
11.Nickname?
Douchebag. Asshole. Whatever insult comes to mind. Most recently "Sugar Balls."He goes by Malach online.
13) How many times do you talk to this person in a week?
Once on average.
14) Do you think they will repost this?
Maybe if he's desperate for something to post.
15) Could you live with this person?
Oh, hell no.
16) Why is this person your number 1?
Because he was the first friend I had other than Tom on MySpace.
17) Have you seen this person cry?
I think so. Maybe.
18) How long have you known this person?
20+ years
19) Have you ever been to the mall with this person?
Yes. And a fun time it was, too. We got our picture taken with Santa!
20) Have you ever had a sleepover with this person?
Yes. But not in a gay kind of way. In a we've roleplayed until 3 am kind of way.
21) If you ever moved away would you miss this person?
Sure. Like the deserts miss the rain.
22) Have you ever given this person something?
Yes.
23) Have you ever done something really stupid or illegal with this person?
Yes.
24) Do you know everything about this person?
I doubt it.
25) Would you date this person's siblings?
No. Dr. Murk is married too.
26) Does this person have you as their #1?
No. He clearly doesn't love me as much as I love him.
27) Have you ever made something with this person?
A 4-foot-tall penis made of snow, among other things.
28) Have you and your #1 fought before?
Argued? Sure. Many times.
29) Have you gone skinny dipping with this person?
For Christ's sake. No.
32) Do you know this person's shoe size?
Not offhand. I would guess 11.
33) Have you ever worn this person's clothes?
I may have tried on a hat.
34) Have you and your #1 person made up a hand shake?
No. Do people do this?
35) If it was "freaky friday" would you switch bodies with this person?
This question is so gay. No.
36) Has this person ever seen you dance?
Yes.
37) Have you ever heard this person sing?
Yes.
38) Do you and this person have a saying?
Many. "More coal, please." There's one.
39) Do you know this persons myspace password?
No. And if I did, I wouldn't post it. (Best guess: "Ilovecock.")
40) Do you know this persons best friend?
I would bet money on it.
41) Have you and this person ever gotten into a fight that lasted more than 2 months?
No, but we were out of touch for a while. Not because we were fighting. We were just lazy.
42) Does this person cry a lot?
Not that I'm aware of. If he does, he's a fairy.
44.) Have u and this person gone clubbing?
We clubbed some mailboxes once.
45) Do you know how to make this person feel happy?
I can make him laugh, if that's what you mean.
46)Do you and this person talk alot?
We're in regular contact.
47) Have you licked this person?
Oh. God. Oh God no. Sweet, merciful crap, no.
48) Has this person yelled at you?
Sure. I even deserved it most of the time.
49) Have you and this person got into a fist fight?
No. But if we did I would totally KICK HIS ASS.
50) Do you love this person?
In a we've been friends for over twenty years and I hope he doesn't die kind of way.
51) Do you want to be friends with them forever?
Boy, Do I!!!!!
