Teach Me How to Shepard, T-Teach Me How To Shepard

I know that I just did a post about cosplaying, but this one is about me doing it, so you can laugh at me and/or with me.

If you read my other blog, Shepard, Interrupted you are familiar with Mass Effect (I hope) and my playstyle of “drink everything, all the time.” After finding out that a couple of friends were going to do some fractional ass amount of ME cosplay at PAX, I decided that I wanted to bring my idea for what Shepard would be like after a night of drinking on the Citadel, drinking in Kasumi’s room, throwing up in that glowy thing, insisting we fly to Uranus, probing it multiple times, throwing up in her shower, and finally passing out in the elevator as the door tries to close on her head, where Garrus and Miranda find her and drag her back to her cabin as she mumbles how much she loves them, to life.

The friends had made an amazing Miranda t-shirt (complete with drawn on boobs(aka “foobs”)) and an equally amazing Tali hoodie (complete with frustrating-to-draw swirls). We hit the convention on Saturday, with them mostly looking disappointed in me, as I had apparently screwed up again, but I couldn’t remember how.

The costume was a black bathrobe with an N7 patch stitched to it, an N7 tank top, heart-patterned boxer shorts, mis-matched socks, aviator sunglasses, a busted omniblade, and N7 coffee mug. I also applied an N7 tattoo to my neck, complete with blush to give it a nice “freshly gotten, regrettable decision” look. Oh, and my “Deal With It” sign.

Also my hair was ridiculously huge, and seemed to only get huger throughout the day.

I took a nap with my omni-blade for a bit.

And our efforts did get us to the front of the line to play Mass Effect 3!

Thankfully shortly after this, it was getting later in the day and time to have a bit of the hair of the varren…er..scale? fringe? weird stuff that varren have of the varren that bit me?

We got drinks.

Okay, a few drinks.

Okay a lot of drinks.

We headed to the line for a panel after this, and I was rocking a pretty healthy buzz. Around this point it became apparent that I should not be allowed to have this omni-blade, as it provided me with a distance that I felt made it acceptable for me to poke people/things/sensitive areas with it. However when someone tried to remove it from my arm, I immediately licked it and declared, “IF I LICK IT, IT’S MINE FOREVER.”

I honestly look like I am very close to checking into rehab in most of these pictures.

If someone heard that I died after seeing these, they would not be surprised.

“SHE DIED? BUT SHE ALWAYS HAD THOSE SUNGLASSES ON. AND HER TONGUE HANGING OUT.”

Sassy Gay Hawke showed up, and we combined for amazing-ness.

SERIOUSLY. GOING TO REHAB.

Also we danced…well everyone else danced. I uh…ho boy…

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Off Duty Heroes Part 1

Since the rise of comic conventions, there has been a simultaneous rise in the art of cosplay. These costumed conventioneers can usually find themselves on the internet later if their costume was either 1. really really good or 2. really really bad.

However after a recent outing at the Seattle con (Emerald City Comic Con), I came to appreciate cosplayers in a whole other way.

As I finished my lunch with a couple cohorts at the Cheesecake Factory across the street, we looked over a table in the corner. Here was Nightcrawler. Blue skin, tights, blue hair. And he sat in his booth looking over his check, trying to figure out how much to tip.

You see, at cons, usually the pictures of cosplayers involve them posing for them. Immediately afterwards, they continue to roam the con and do all the same con-y things anyone else there is doing. They chow down on their lunch, check their phones, and do things that look wholly un-superhero-y.

So here’s the first half of collection of pictures taken at ECCC, of these heroic cosplayers, JUST HANGING OUT.

(It is superhard to take these pictures. People see with your camera, and immediately want to pose. No! Just hang out!)

Batgirl gets some lunch:

When he’s not busy fighting crime, GL hangs out with his girl:

Oooooh! Batman got one of those free Soyjoy bags they were giving out! At least yellow kinda goes with the suit.

Search these comics, you know it to be true.

Lady Robin hanging with a boyfriend? Is this canon?

And the last for Part One, I was completely amazed when we saw this guy walk outside in his Superboy costume and LIGHT A DAMN CIGARETTE.

As soon as he was done, he went back inside and was immediately asked to pose for a picture with a couple of 5 year old girls.

“Daddy, he smells like smoke.”

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IWFL Poll Demonstrates Halting Problem

 

 

 

If you get this, you are probably a giant goddamn nerd.

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Jagged Little Pill(ow)

Ok watch this commercial. Watch it.

 

Spike TV was doing a marathon of Star Wars movies. This marathon started with Phantom Menace and ended at Empire Strikes Back. I watched almost all of it because I lack drive, ambition, self-worth, etc. This marathon also included commercial breaks that hovered around the 10 minute mark, and apparently these Cloud Pillow fuckers paid for a lot of them. After watching this commercial something around 4 times an hour for an entire day, I had developed some hmmm…opinions on it.

First off, this is an asian pillow, and you can tell because the lady using it is so asian she is even sleeping in a kimono or something. The lesson here is that if you are gonna be asian, you need to really own that shit.

Then they say that most pillows are shaped like bricks. If by a brick, you mean a rectangle. I’m sure I can think of some things that are rectangular but pleasant. Pillows for example. Beds. Don’t just lump pillows and bricks together. Also your pillow is still pretty brick looking, I gotta say.

Then there’s this um, experiment. It’s been a while since I attended any sort of school but I feel fairly certain that one of the core concepts in science class was that when you performing an experiment, you do it with the purpose of setting out to prove something. You have a hypothesis. You have a control group. You don’t just fill tubes with crap and start smashing eggs.

The announcer rattles off very quickly that the average human head weighs 10 pounds, and is perfectly represented here by a 10 lb weight, which we will drop in these tubes filled with various pillow fillings, with eggs on the bottom. Brown eggs, so you can see them against the pillow fillings. Oh my god.

Aside from the weight, it’s hard to figure out what is supposed to represent what in this scenario. The pillow fillings are different pillows, but I don’t sleep on a tube shaped pillow and I don’t slam my head onto my pillow that hard. Then there’s eggs. What are they doing there at all? Could I prove any point I want by making a two minute commercial and smashing a bunch of eggs? There’s something to try.

I found a website that um, reviewed the pillow:

http://www.sobakawapillowreview.com/

but it seems to mostly just be an ad for the pillow. One line did catch my eye though:

“Second, the buckwheat husks do not get warm, leaving the pillow cool and comfortable all night.”

Buckwheat husks do not get warm? What? Are they magic?

They also drop a bowling ball on the pillow to show how it retains its shape. Again the weight meant to represent a person’s head is dropped from a substantial height.  I swear these guys got some sort of commercial making kit. It came with eggs, weights, bowling balls, tubes, and people who could pretend to be unsatisfied with their current way of life. I almost expected the next claim to be how great the pillow is at cleaning up spills.

I also was weirded out more and more each time I watched it, how casually they mention how much a head weighs.

Hold on, hold on.

I am okay with science knowing things like this, but I can’t help but wonder things about that number. How old is that data? People are, as species, getting larger. Do they update the weight of human heads every 10 years, like the census? If that data is substantially old, is it out of date? Are heads much heavier now? How much neck is included here? I think the pillow people need to include a bit of neck weight if that number is not counting any neck.

In conclusion these pillow people should give me some money if any of you buy one.

I gotta eat, dammit.

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Owls Well That Ends Well

I am sitting on the couch. The TV is on, and I am using my laptop to poke around on Netflix for a movie to watch. Goddammit, none of these movies are what I want, what the hell. This is taking forever and in the meantime, the movie Legends of the Guardians comes on. This is a movie from sometime last year, and it is about owls. I tried not to pay attention at first, clinging every so desperately to my desire to find something on Netflix arrrrgh but alas the shit going down with these owls was too goddamn crazy for me to ignore any longer. Suffice to say, I spent the next 90-ish minutes staring confusedly at my television.

The movie is about a young owl named Soren. His brother is named Kludd and they have a little sister too, but her name was something huge. They can’t fly yet, but are close to learning. They live with their parents and a snake. I don’t know. Also all the owls have kind of…Australian accents or something, so half of the names I wasn’t sure what they were saying. They would yell Kludd and I would think, “Is that owl’s name Claude? Clyde? C..lade? What the hell?” This happened with multiple owls too; it’s a good thing they were all pretty distinct looking.

The point in the movie where I finally said, okay I’m watching this was when one of the young owls hacked and gagged and finally vomited up their first owl pellet. And that owl was freaked the fuck out. What the shit is this? The whole family is super happy. Oh my god! Your first pellet! Remember the mouse you ate earlier? Here are its bones! The young owl is extra freaked out. My FIRST one?! What the shiiiiiit? I don’t want this! Give this to a middle schooler to poke through; this is horrible!

A bit later, Soren and Kludd are out getting into trouble at night when they are almost killed but seemed to be saved by two other owls. Except the two owls are just kidnapping them and taking them to work for the evil owls. They are taking young owls and making some of them into slaves and taking a few to train to be warriors. On the journey, Soren meets another tiny owl who I always just referred to in my mind as “That Tiny Owl” so…that’s what she’s called now. Soren and That Tiny Owl get shoved off to be slaves and Kludd is taken to be warrior.

Then they put all the slaves in front of the moon and make them stare it because it…turns owls into mindless owl zombies or something. I am starting to feel like an owl zombie trying to take this all in, honestly. Soren and his friend resist it and discover the evil owls’ plan to use some weird metal to make some weird force field that affects an owl’s gizzard. NO I DON’T KNOW STOP ASKING ME.

One of the evil owls turns out to secretly be good and helps Soren and That Tiny Owl escape but Kludd is all “I LIKE IT HERE THEY GIVE ME CANDY BARS AND APPRECIATE ME.” You know, that typical bullshit from that type of character where it’s like, my god, what is wrong with you and your whole entitlement/self-pity/resentment schtick, ugh. So Soren and That Tiny Owl leave and meet a couple other owls and that snake and go to find some GUARDIAN OWLS.

By this point, I think my brain is turning into an owl pellet.

The Guardian owls send a scout team to check out the reports of these evil owls, and in the meantime start training Soren in all the abilities of these owls! Fighting! Flying! Blacksmithing!

Wait, blacksmithing?

Yes, the owls are somehow starting fires and being blacksmiths and making helmets and metal claws to wear over their talons to fight with and what the hell. Owls shouldn’t be starting fires! At one point, an owl is stirring up his blacksmithin’ pit and he’s like “FIRE IS THE LIFE OF THE TREE!” No! What? No! That is…I can’t imagine how that could be right, ever!

They also have paper where they write stuff in weird owl language. I couldn’t help but wonder how deep this owl stuff went. Are there owl paper mills? Owl lumberjacks? Will owl society continue to evolve? Will they discover electricty? Invent the microchip? Will owls in cleansuits build little owl circuitboards? I NEED A SEQUEL! I NEED ANSWERS!

Anyway, as can be expected, shit goes down in a big battle and Soren is the best owl. These owl fights were crazy intense though. It’s a Zack Snyder movie so…imagine stuff that happens in his movies…but now it’s owls. They were slow motion crashing in midair as their slow motion metal talons collided and sent sparks flying everywhere. Owls were swooping in on other owls and making a slicing motion at the off-screen owl, the implication being that a throat had been slashed or a head removed. I was kinda freaking out at these owls a bit. I swear I saw an owl snap the neck of another (off-screen) owl and man you really gotta crank the head around to get that pop.

Soren had a final fight with this idiot brother where his brother is almost going to die, hanging from a branch, wing broken and a forest fire below (presumably started by some owls). He begs Soren to pull him up which Soren does, but it was all “The Owl King” and Kludd in one last idiot move to try to kill his brother manages to slip himself and fall into the flames. Good job, dude.

Soren runs back to fight the head evil owl and ends up stabbing him through the chest with a flaming stick. Everyone runs over like he did an awesome job, but he looks like he’s got freakin’ owl PTSD and he’s gonna go back to the tree and drink every night for the rest of his life.

What a happy ending!

No it was happy, there was like a party and shit.

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Adventures in Jobbyhunting

As I’ve been sending out job applications and posting my resume places, I occasionally get an email back from bots or spammers or scammers or things of that nature. This is the email I received the other day:

Good day Jordyn Nolz,

We believe that your knowledge, skill set, and work experience will be among our most valuable assets.

You can earn money sitting in your own home!

No sales, and no chasing down clients, yet big rewards are available with RexTech Ltd.

If you are interested in chance) for(high wages|high earnings|relevant salary|bigger salary amount) independence, and full benefits, please(simply|just|)reply to this message, and our(manager|HR manager)will write you to discuss further the(hiring process|employment opportunity|job description|chance of being employed)in detail.

(To expedite|To accelerate)the(communication|response time)process, please(fill in|complete|write down)the necessary information below:

=======================FORM======================
First name:
Last name:
Country of residence:
Contact phone:
Preferred call time:
=======================FORM======================

(Sincerely|Thank You|Respectfully|Yours faithfully)
(HR Recruiter|HR Manager|HR Assistant)

Nick Rowalsky
RexTech Ltd.


Normally I just delete these immediately because they usually the also involve asking me to click a link for a FREE CREDIT CHECK that I NEED TO DO if I want this job! But this time I decided to send something back:


Dear (Nick | Mr. Rowalsky | Senor Rowalsky | Nick Dogg)

Thank you so much for considering (me | anyone | everyone) for this (exciting | scammy | fake) job opportunity! Before I send you my (information | first born child | contract for soul), I was hoping you could tell me more about RexTech! Do you sell (dinosaurs | robot dogs | misspelled Krogans)?

While (big earnings | money piles | men rainstorms) sound (enticing | fake | not real), I feel it is in my best interest to (gather | collect | steal | coerce out of a person with false promises) information about you first!

===========FORM | THING TO WRITE ON | WORDY STUFFY ============
1. Are you (real | nonfiction)?
2. Hahaha, no you’re not.
===========FORM | THING TO WRITE ON | WORDY STUFFY ============

(Thank you | Muchas Gracias). Please reply soon!

(Sincerely | Love | Don’t Write Back)
(Jordyn | Batman | Mr. President | Sexy in Sacramento)


So far there’s been no reply, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed!

In other job hunting news, I came across this in an ad yesterday:

“At least three (5) years of experience in office work”

The ad was for The Brain Injury Association of Washington.

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My New Wheels Have a First Name

           “No fucking way,” were the only words I could squeeze out as I stood in awe of the prize I had won, the prize that now sat in my front lawn. It was shiny and glistened in the morning sun, a gleam that was only rivaled by the one in my eye. It was glorious and it was mine for a day: The Wienermobile.

            Oscar Meyer had this contest. Write what you would do with the Wienermobile for a day, and the winner would get a chance to live out that dream, if you can call it that. I had entered the contest as a joke, writing paragraph after paragraph about how I would use the vehicle for charity and to delight children with joy and frivolity. And then somehow, someway, by what can only be the work of the devil, I had won. I had the won the actual goddamn Wienermobile for a day. But I didn’t intend to amuse children with it. No, I was going to use it for what I had always dreamed of.

            I was going to rob a bank.

            The Oscar Meyer representative handed me the keys and I assured him that I had driven several large, oversized vehicles shaped like food before. I let my deluded perception of reality sink in, then turned back towards my house. I needed to change. My robe and cowboy boots weren’t going to suit what I had in mind.

            As I dug through piles of clothes searching for my lucky jeans, I called the only person who could help me pull this off: Ellie Ironside. She picks up on the fifth ring.

            “Ellie. We got a job.”

            “Dammit J, I got shit planned.”

            I found my jeans and slipped them on. “It can wait El, I got the ride.”

            What? You got it?”

            “Yeah.” I heard her phone drop and her door slam as she ran to her car. El could be kind of excitable.

            Hanging up my phone, I snapped the buckle on my utility belt and checked all the pockets before grabbing my tank top. The words “YOU CAN’T STOP ME” adorned my chest. Intimidation is important in the larceny business.

            Ellie arrived and we climbed in the Wienermobile, focused on what we were about to do. Pistols, grenades, smoke bombs, and throwing stars lined the inside of my jacket and a knife strapped against my leg rubbed the inside of my boot. I wore a sheathed sword on my back. I didn’t cover my face except for a dark pair of sunglasses over my eyes.

            This wasn’t about money. This was about showmanship.

            We roared into the bank parking lot at 10am, and I zipped into a handicap spot. I figure if I’m going to break the law, I might as well go all out.

            “Keep ‘er running,” I told El. “This shouldn’t take but five minutes.”

            I strolled into the bank with a confident stride and dramatic music started blaring in my head. I swung the doors open and pulled out my berretta with my left hand. I fired a shot into the air and in the same second, knocked the gun out of the guard’s hand with a throwing star before unsheathing my sword and cutting off a man’s ponytail. It looked terrible.

            As I returned the sword to its place, I shot the button for the silent alarm. A woman screamed. Typical. I pulled out a flour sack I had painted a giant dollar sign on and handed it to the man behind the counter.

            “Fill it,” I ordered him.

            As he did, I took a moment to ask everyone how they were doing and if they needed anything. As usual, no one answered. Meanwhile the man returned with my sack of cash. I threw down a handful of smoke bombs and headed for the door shouting, “HAHAHA THE PERFECT CRIME!”

            El threw the rope ladder out of the Wienermobile and I grabbed it, beginning my ascent to the driver’s seat. It’s seriously like a thirty foot climb. I fastened my seatbelt.

            “How’d it go?” El asked.

            I paused. “It was more beautiful than I ever imagined.”

            I shifted the giant hot dog into gear and looked for a hiding spot. My plan wasn’t over yet. I managed to squeeze into an alley and pushed a button I could only assume was the cloaking device. Why the Wienermobile has a cloaking device I’ll probably never know. I still maintain that those Oscar Meyer people are up to something.

            Securely hidden away, we waited for the moment to make our next move. Meanwhile the police had arrived on the scene. And news crews. Tons of them. Video cameras everywhere. El and I watched the live coverage on the giant TV in the Wiener until we saw our opportunity. A news lady interviewed an older woman still frantic from the crime.

            “Did you see what they were driving?” she asked.

            “Yes,” she replied. “It was the Wienermobile!”

            At those words we squealed from our hiding spot and zoomed past the cadre of news vans, firing a roman candle out the window and laughing maniacally. I slowed around a corner, taking care not to roll the Dog, as I had come to call it. Sirens blaring, a group of police cars gave chase. I stared ahead with a grin to see just how perfect everything was working out. The bridge across the harbor had just begun to rise as a boat neared to pass under it. I pressed on the gas, my foot replaced with raw determination. My speed increased as I raced towards the break in the bridge. We soared over it as I let out a shout of joy and adrenaline. I glanced in the rearview mirror only to find the Wienermobile didn’t have a back window. Behind me the cops screeched to a halt and got out of their cars, shaking their fists. It was the single greatest moment of my life.

 

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The Future is Confusing

A fourth of the way into Batman: Digital Justice and I have to say, I have very little idea as to what is actually going on. I know that there are human cops, and robot cops. The robot cops are possibly going crazy. And the human cops are already crazy.

First, I made the terrible mistake of reading the introduction. There was a lot in it about how computers would completely change how we make comics. And they have. To some extent. There are WACOM tablets, and Photoshops, and various types of arty programs to aide you in your comic creation. But even with the 16 million colors and “hundreds” of progams they say Pepe had at his disposal in creating Digital Justice, none of them have a button that simply makes things look good. That still needs to come from the artist. And that does not happen here. 

It’s easy to critique the art in this book. It’s bad, simply put. I often wonder while trudging through it if computers in 199o were incapable of drawing straight lines or if the lines are supposed to be jaggy and distracting to remind me constantly of the book’s computer origins, and the story’s computer setting. Every panel, despite being created by programs using “3-D rendering” look remarkably flat. 

The story follows James Gordon, grandson of Commissioner Gordon, an angry cop who says variations of “damn” so often he once says it three times in a single panel.

Officer Gordon is your stereotypical cop with a heart of gold who hates the rules and thinks he might be onto something big! Real big! He is naturally then pulled off the case and assigned to be a bodyguard for the pop star Gata. 

The future is well…a confusing place. A place where it is difficult to make words fit properly in speech bubbles. A place where sometimes it is hard to tell who is saying what. A place where a person might babble for up to four sentences with words that don’t seem to mean anything, leaving you confused as to what just occurred but not really caring because why are you even reading this book.

Huh?

What?

Our hero, Gordon, discovers that the police robots or “servos” have been more and more frequently just freaking out and killing innocent people. One of the latest victim’s DNA could not be identified and Gordon sensed something more was going on. He and his partner check the mainframe and wonder if someone, somehow has been messing internally with “the Net.” 

This “Net” is referred to a few times during this first chunk of story, but it’s all pretty vague. It runs the city? It has executives? The relations between it and other things and how it actually runs things are not really explored beyond that, at least at this point. I fear it may never be explained more.

Just as Gordon thinks he’s about to make a break, Stereotypical Police Captain calls him into his office. This guy is slightly tubby, black thinning hair with gray sides, thick eyebrows, and suspenders. I think he might be fake. He is such a cliche that I think he might be fake. 

Part one ends with Gordon trying to get some money from a machine and kicking it. It threatens to MURDER HIM and he leaves as the machines cackle the night away. 

OOOOH WHAT DEVILISH TERRORS AWAIT IN PART TWO!

James Gordon “Damn” count: 12

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This Post Was Computer Generated Too

For a long time now I’ve had a copy of Batman: Digital Justice on my shelf. I bought it as a joke from the comic book store in South Dakota that I had been going to for a few years, before I moved as far away as I could. The owner always lamented that no one would buy such a crappy book, so well, I did. 

I have not read it. 

I am now going to. 

And I of course, want you all to share in the experience!

How exciting!

Batman: Digital Justice was released by DC Comics in 1990. Even the Wiki for this book is bad:

“It was written and illustrated by Pepe Moreno entirely using computer hardware, software and techniques.”

Yes yes, I use techniques in my writing too. 

There is only one part of this book I have ever read: the dust jacket. It has thus far contained enough gems to sustain me. Here are some important things to keep in mind while reading this book.

That sounds, um..interesting? No, terrible. And no, I don’t know where all those asterisks go. There’s asterisks everywhere! And nothing that they are referring back to! It’s as though they are just there to help emphasize* things. Like putting them in bold* isn’t enough. They need something else* there too. 

Carry on though, dustjacket.

These seems like a big mistake when putting out a book: saying that your book, your shitty shitty book is going to be just the best goddamn thing ever. Compared to Blade Runner? 1984? Brave New World? How? “These are things that are all books.” 

The back flap makes me less worried about the actual content of the book though, and more amused at the 1990’s fascinating technology used to create such a stunning masterpiece.

First, this book took more than a year to make on a computer. And, spoiler alert, it looks terrible. You aren’t selling me on this idea at all, Pepe. I think I could make a better comic if I instead took that year and just learned to draw

It also says the lettering is supposed to duplicate traditional lettering. It too, looks like hell. 

Finally, a small section about our esteemed author.

The part that leaps out at me most is, of course, the very end.

What Pepe is into now is what we’ll ALL be into in ten years.

I fondly remember the year 2000.

And it’s shelves, packed with crappy computer generated comics.

Look it, goddammit, I’m getting all wistful now!

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My Fantasy is On the Moon

A few years ago, I started listening to rap music more and more often. It started with a lingering affection for the song “Rollout” by Ludacris, and blossomed slowly into money spent on Wu-Tang, Busta Rhymes, Ghostface, and more.  And while my rap collection has been ever-expanding, the original love of Ludacris has always remained.

A constant favorite is the song, “What’s Your Fantasy” featuring Shawna. Ludacris throws down some, let’s call them, mad raps, and the song is always fun to listen to. The problems arise when I listen to it too closely and begin thinking about the actual scenarios he describes in the song.

The first fantasy he suggests, right out the gate, is the proposal of doing it on the fifty yard line at the Georgia Dome while the Atlanta Falcons kick a field goal. Two lines into the first verse and my mind is completely wrapped up in this one idea, unable to listen to the entire rest of the verse as I sort out my feelings towards this idea. I’m impressed at the idea and the gall needed to suggest doing it on a football field in the middle of a game. At the same time, field goals are usually the third most boring part of a game (after extra points and punts). If you’re describing a fantasy scenario, why not do it in the end zone while they score a touchdown? It would make for the most applause, and more points for your team.

Tactically, I’m intrigued at how one gets onto a football field in the middle of a game and begins to fornicate without quickly attracting the attention of security. Then again, tactfulness arises as an issue in almost every fantasy Ludacris goes on to describe, so I don’t fret over it too much.

My last concern with this football field sex is if the kick were to be blocked and returned the other way. How terrifying is it to be in the throes of passion and suddenly look up to see twenty-two two hundred plus pound men rumbling towards you?

After missing the rest of that verse, Ludacris next suggests doing it in the bathtub with a candle lit. It sounds surprisingly romantic. Thankfully his next suggestion is to do it on the stage at one of his concerts, which has naturally sold out. There is an implication in the lyrics that if the concert weren’t sold out, he would prefer to check to one of the other fantasies for the moment, and give the concert thing another go later.

His next idea is to do it at the library on top of the books, but cautions the listener that you cannot be too loud in this scenario. It’s okay though, I think making a large pile of books will have already attracted enough of the outside attention that seems necessary for a Ludacris love session.

He proposes doing it at the White House, which brings up even more security issues than the football field idea. Unless Ludacris is supposed to be the president in this situation. It’s hard to tell what his exact idea is here.

His last three methods are Dracula, Horseback, and School Teacher.

The Holy Trinity of Ludacris sex.

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