Waffle On

Formerly a magazine, WAFFLE ON has been consumed by the beast that is the online world. On Thursdays we wear pink.

[waffle-on-blog]

The Secret Life of The Amish Teen

Technology is great. You kids can do all kinds of stuff with it, like save lives, organise social revolutions, help generous Nigerian Princes, etc. etc. In fact it’s so great that nowadays you can solicit strangers at obscure hours of the night to prepare edibles for you, and watch them move as they come closer and closer to your doorstep with food (of the delicious, pizza persuasion). I am a firm believer in this aspect of modernity and my devotion is so deep it would make the Mariana Trench cry. This accounts for the fact that rocks can’t cry. In fact, the internet itself makes life so easy, we could probably go through life without ever having to come into physical contact with another human being!

But modernisation isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. For one, we heavily depend on something that weighs less than 50 grams (that’s the internet to you, or Mr Internet, if you’re feeling frisky). For another, we still haven’t figured out any way of recording information than carving into boulders, and after a few billion years, we still can’t lick our elbows. I say it’s time for all of you to revert back to the way they used to do things. The old fashioned way, which gives you the power to do things with actual people! I’m not trying to be a crotchety old person or anything, except that I am, so fetch me my slippers and pipe while I tell you this story. None of us had to hug computers to express our feels, or spend our precious time looking for appropriate smiley faces. Go back to your roots, son, and discover what it really means to live. Become Amish!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOfZLb33uCg

You see, the criteria for talking to someone actually include being in the same vicinity and saying words with your mouth and/or larynx. Why not try it? Sure, Robinson Crusoe might have appreciated some Skype access, but technology creates an illusion that just isn’t ever going to be substitute for the real quality time. Real quality time isn’t throwing Farmville sheep at your friends, it’s inviting them to play with you! And when you’re part of an Amish community, they actually will play, so long as you don’t mind waking to find your friend on your doorstep with a bag of seeds and a hoe in tow. That’s a small price to pay for friendship right? Social interaction the Amish way also ensures that you don’t end up collecting zazzy cats. It’ll also mean that you’ll never have to substitute a hug or call for a bland ‘hbd’ message, because let’s face it: it’s just not as good as a real one. By taking the opportunity to move to Pennsylvania, you take the opportunity for a better future, and better friends! There’s also a greater chance that you’ll actually get that pony for your birthday (and I want a pony).

Imagine a world that’s rid of Beliebers, because your community only accepts Believers. Imagine never having your intelligence questioned by Microsoft Word, or being outsmarted by auto-erect. Never having to call someone maybe, because gosh darn it, you just can’t! You’ll never have to witness someone spk lyk dis irl, lol, deal with 9gag regurgitations or endanger your intelligence and literacy skills ever again because profaners of this highest order will be instantly shunned. Spending time in the Real World means that you’ll get to spend less time dealing with the Internetz, associated people and technological hazards. But what’s that you say? I’ll only get one chance to spend my time the way I want, so YOLO? Well, my friend, I’ll be playing the game of Life with Jesus where me and my Amish crew are going. If you say it again I’ll cut you. Yeah, that’s right, you heard me. My homies and I will cut you(r beard)!

It used to be all about MSN and e-snail-mail. You would have been blessed to have something like a Magic 8 Ball in the 90s, which was the ‘cool thing’, let alone this Yahoo Answers business. What kind of hoodlum yahoos his answers anyway? We were better behaved in my time and would do as our parents said, you know. But now it takes you forever to send a text, which is supposed to be some sort of shortened message (isn’t that what SMS stands for? See, Gramps knows a thing or two!) Now you have to use some sort of confounded language of acronyms and symbols to shorten it all, of course. I used to be a bit of a English buff back in school, so it’s alright if you want to text Grandpa with it, right? I get that the lowercase letters are supposed to make you look more casual, but if you mix them, you look uneducated. It’s so kind of you to send me a smile though! Right back at you, kiddo, 8===D! But still, I’d appreciate it if you messaged me with whole words, with complete punctuation like I’m used to. This is hard on the eyes.

How is it we came to be social while sitting in darkened rooms, alone? If your yahoo of a friend can tell me that, then I’ll be a monkey’s grandfather. You youngsters spend your lives on the world wide weberverse only to miss out on the real fun, what with the MyFaces and Spacebooks; all those confounded screens! The day you see another human being is the day hell freezes over. I’d tell you to get off my lawn, but you’re not even on it, are you? You young whippersnappers just get my tweed all up in a twist.

But we can’t get away from modernity forever, and it’s not all bad – none of us would be here without it. But trust me, the good times are offline. Take some advice from your ol’ grandpa Kathy: have fun. Not the crappy canned kind that you get today, but the real, good stuff. You’re never going to remember the fun times you had, sitting on your butt staring at a screen. It definitely doesn’t qualify if you open a window and bask in the glow of your laptop acquiring your nerd tan. Go outside, to the real fresh air, and sunshine. Just remember kids, you can’t always count on technology, but if you’re desperate, then the only technology you can count on is a calculator. By Kathy Zhang

[cozimamanning]

[waffle-on-blog]

Relevant.

[redefinedrose]

[waffle-on-blog]

Sometimes you just have to ask yourself, What Would Ferris Do?

[waffle-on-blog]

A Message From Your (Former) Editor

This is an editorial. The first of its kind on this here Waffle On blog. How exciting! You probably haven’t noticed my presence here for the last two-and-a-bit weeks but I have been lurking here, behind the scenes in my cave which has only a computer and a parrot who contributes to everything I write. WHO’S A PRETTY BIRD? You. You are a pretty bird, Patrick the Parrot. He is very insecure about his appearance.

I’ve enjoyed being the invisible hand which controls the flow of posts around here. I’ve been omnipresent. I’ve been kind. I’ve been the loveliest overlord you never knew you were under the control of. Not to toot my own horn or anything. The submissions we have received have been of a very high standard so a big thank you to everyone to who has submitted. And to everyone who is thinking of maybe eventually sometime submitting something, make that time now! There isn’t too long of this theme left so if you have an idea, just the beginning of an idea or merely the inclination to write anything at all then get on it. Pretty please. Patrick the Parrot will be disappointed if you don’t, not to emotionally blackmail you with the feelings of a parrot you were only introduced to moments ago.

Editor and helper-bird out! By Georgia Marett

[waffle-on-blog]

I just really wanna know how many days a rat can tread water for?

The generally held time is 72 hours (3 days) for a Brown Rat (rattus norvegicus), the most common and evil species of rat worldwide. Why yes, that is an incredibly freaking long time! Although apparently an individual rat must be either very optimistic or have a very strong will to live if it is to last that long. Rats have a bunch of terrifyingly impressive skills which have helped make them so successful. They can leap 3 feet into the air, fall 50 feet totally unharmed, squeeze through gaps as small as half an inch, climb vertical surfaces and they can survive longer than a camel without water. They're excellent burrowers and can easily walk along suspended ropes. The largest can weigh almost a kilogram. They reach sexual maturity at 3-4 months old and a female can produce up to 12 litters of as many as 22 tiny little ones in a single year. And while we're on the subject, a female in oestrus (a 6-hour long state of sexual receptivity) can have sex with up to 500 males. Yep. 500. In 6 hours. So if it came down to an apocalyptic Man Versus Rat conflict for supremacy over Earth, we'd be totally screwed and we'd probably all have to flee to Antarctica, pretty much the only place on the planet where there are some people but no rats. But at least now you know, and knowing is half the battle!

You'll all thank us when the Great Rat Uprising (Ratvolution?) comes.

[waffle-on-blog]

A Brief History of The Technology of Human Communication (Eagerly awaited Part II)

PART II

In which the writer provides instructions upon raising and training carrier pigeons and extolls the many virtues of dealing with heartbreak by means of consuming a plenitude of Tim Tams.

When I got home, I carefully placed the squirming lump of hessian, blood (mine) and feathers (presumably his) down on the kitchen table, then bathed my hands in warm, salty water while I screamed wordlessly for a good twenty minutes or so. After wiping away my tears, I reached my still-bleeding and semi-paralysed paw of a right hand into the sack and drew out my prize. There he was, a veritably magnificent specimen: white of feather, with brown speckles down his throat and chest; bearing a determined expression on his small yet sturdy beak; his obsidian eyes glinting with proud defiance; and legs that just wouldn't quit. His whole manner was tremendously noble, like the serene emperor of some grand august court, long forgotten by history.

So I named him Henry Rollins, or Ry, for short (pronounced 'REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE').

I had devised a rigorous training regieme for Ry, which consisted mostly of 'tying heavy shit to his legs and throwing him off high places'. Beginning from a burden of one marshmallow and prodding him off a coffee table, we worked our way up to coconuts and skyscrapers. My theory was that the further he had to fall, the more time he had to figure out how he was meant to fly with something over six times his weight fixed to his back with duct tape. He got there eventually. He did have some help, though, propelled up and away as he was by the force of an oncoming minibus.

Over the next week, I cared for Ry night and day, and even during dusk sometimes. We really got to know each other during this time, no longer enemies, no longer bird and master, but brothers, comrades in the great quest for a cool alternative to email. He came to know my patterns, my little quirks: he would give me little pecks and scratches to remind me when it was time for breakfast or Days of Our Lives or my sixth beer for the day. For my part, I grew fond of his mellifluous cooing, his hilarious little way of blinking in mock terror whenever I came near, and of course, his beautiful beak, now slightly bent since the Accident, but no worse for wear.

Next, of course, I had to actually teach my little buddy how to find his way back home. Though my house is very distinctive and aesthetically pleasing and resembles a large rubbish bin in no way, shape or form, one can hardly expect a mere pigeon to have the same discerning architectural taste to which I humbly admit. I blindfolded Ry and took him on a long, meandering walk away from the house, scattering a trail of breadcrumbs behind me. Perhaps he would have been a little panicked by this, had I not slipped him some horse tranquilisers with his breakfast.

What I now know is that pigeons are not horses.

When I finally removed the blindfold and returned Ry to his natural habitat, the gutter, he merely lay limp, his only perceptible movement the rising and falling of his breast as he breathed. His eyes appeared glazed over, and saliva trailed from his beak. Yes, my dear little Henry Rollins had fallen into the k hole. Kids, don't ask your parents. A soft little coo slipped out of his beak. He seemed to be saying,

“Nah, man, it's cool, man, I don't even want to move. It's like I'm the linchpin, no, the epicentre of the universe, and yet also the sum total of it, and if I move, gravity will be reversed and everything will go flying into the sky, and then you'll turn into a pterodactyl. Best just to leave me here and let me soak it all in, man.”

That was the gist of it, anyway. After several hours of gentle kicking, I eventually roused him, at which point he was consumed by a ravenous-to-the-point-of-maniacal hunger. Following and devouring each and every breadcrumb, he made it home in very little time at all.

This was it. Training was over; Ry was fitter, stronger, cleverer than ever before. The day had finally come. Tears streamed freely down my face as I tied a letter (addressed to none other than Mark Zuckerberg) to Ry's scaly yet fragile little dinosaur leg- tears not of agony, but of pride. “Go with God, my son,” I whispered as I cast him out the window. Blowing a tender kiss after him as he soared into the Carribbean sunshine, I reflected that in many ways, Ry was exactly like a son. I had fed him, bathed him, educated him and, most importantly, loved him in our weeks together, even if I had sort of maybe violently abducted him. My own tiny, thumbless, seriously mentally challeneged child was literally flying from the proverbial nest. Though my heart was heavy, I consoled myself with the thought that he would soon return.

But he didn't.

That bastard of an animal never did come back. Ry wasn't a homing pigeon- he was a roaming pigeon. What a slut.

At first, I was simply worried. What if something had happened to my beloved? Maybe he'd been eaten by a snivelling, wretched cat. Or he'd been hit by another wayward, reggae-blasting, drunk-driven van. Or perhaps he was abducted by some raving psychotic for nefarious, message-sending purposes! God forbid.

A night passed, a day passed. I did not sleep. My hands shook, and nothing I could do seemed to cease the tremors. It was a constant effort simply to keep images of all the possible harrowing fates that may have befallen Ry out of my mind.  I finally gathered up my bezerk and untamed emotions and made a trip to the police station, but they were no help at all. Was it because they didn't understand the importance of my pigeon? Was it because I was a foreigner? Was it because I was repeatedly shrieking at them in English to “FIND MY BABY” while brandishing a replica Ry I had made out of chip packets and twigs like a weapon and reeking of month-old fish? I'll never know.

As I was returning to my dumpster  house, I saw something that made my heart leap. Yes, leap, then plummet rapidly to earth with a sickening squelch. There was Ry, in the town square, hanging out with a bunch of his fellow skyrats. Was I sure it was him? Yes. That face haunts my dreams to this very day. I boldly walked up to him and his filthy, diseased, malodorous friends.

“So, Ry,” I said, voice quavering, “Where's my reply from Mark Zuckerberg?” But Henry Rollins never met my gaze.

“Fine. I see how it is. You have fun with your friends.” As I stormed off, I prayed fiercely that my humiliating display of unabashed passive-aggression would win back his little pigeon heart.

But I never saw him again.

There's a lesson to be learnt here. But, wait, what is it? Modern technology doesn't suck that bad after all? No no, the internet and all that comes with it is still very much a mixed blessing. Don't form emotional attachments to anything ever? That's just silly.

I guess what I'm really, truly trying to get across to you all is that pigeons are terrible, terrible animals and a less than pathetic means of sending messages. Yeah, Aesop got nothin' on me. And if you ever see Henry Rollins (the bird, not the punk singer), tell him I'm doing just fine! And no, Ry, these six packets of Tim Tams aren't just for me. I'm allowed wear my hoodie to the supermarket, it's not a formal occasion. Actually, many people have told me this beard makes me look very distinguished! Why are you so cruel, Henry Rollins? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?

FINIS

Waffle On does not condone animal cruelty or emulating Simon Farley in any way. He is a weirdo.

[waffle-on-blog]

Strange Laws Found on the Internet

The amount of strange and just plain stupid laws for almost every country that can be found on the internet boggles the mind. It boggled my mind when I spent a very long time trawling the internet trying to find the best ones. The things I do for you, dear reader. So many of them start with “a friend of a friend told me that…” but I have taken the most trust worthy and verify-able of the thousands that are out there and delivered them to you.

In the England it is illegal to die in the Houses of Parliament.

On a study of 4,000 people done recently by UKTV this strange law was voted the strangest. I think the stranger thing is that only 27% of people surveyed found it the strangest on the list. Nigel Cawthorne (author of the book Strange Laws of Old England) told the Daily Telegraph newspaper that anyone who dies in Parliament is technically entitled to a state funeral and the law is in place to ensure this doesn’t happen. The list the surveyed people read did include such English gems as: a pregnant woman can legally relieve herself anywhere she wants and it is illegal not to tell the tax man anything you do not want him to know, but legal not to tell him information you do not mind him knowing. I love England.

In Washington, America it is mandatory for a motorist with criminal intentions to stop at the city limits and telephone the chief of police as he is entering the town.

Oh America. God bless your faces. In an effort to reduce crime in the area Washington law enforcers introduced this law. It was never followed because it is obviously both a strange and stupid law so it had little effect on reducing anything, except maybe my opinion of America as a whole.

In Western Australia it is illegal to crush beer cans between your breasts in a pub.

First of all, ouch. Second of all, why? Well a 31 year old barmaid, who worked at the Premier Hotel in Pinjarra, south of Perth, decided to entertain her customers by taking their empty beer cans and crushing them… but her hands were just too busy so she had to use her breasts instead. She ended up in court and was fined $1000 for her troubles.

In Australia, lawmakers are proposing a new law that will not allow anyone to come closer than 100 meters from a dead whale’s carcass.

This is kind of breaking news because it hasn’t actually been enacted yet. It became apparent that we in Australia needed a law such as this because footage was shot of tourists going out into a feeding frenzy of sharks who were feeding on a dead whale. This may not sound all that bad because the tourists were safe inside a boat, except that they weren’t, they were attempting to pat the sharks.  In Australia we try to protect people who are too stupid to protect themselves. I think we deserve a pat on the back for that.

Finding out all these strange laws has either made me want to become a lawyer or a criminal, I‘m not quite sure which yet... Either way props to the internet and all its infinite (and somemetimes unverifiable but accepted as true nonetheless) hilarity.

By Georgia Marett

[waffle-on-blog]

Because puns.

[icetigera-blog]

[waffle-on-blog]

It bears thinking about...

[lets-chat8892]

I want to know what its like  

[waffle-on-blog]

For anyone who has ever felt out of place, silenced, unrepresented, hated, fearful, different, marginalised or like nobody understands: this is for you. One of the best of this type of video i have seen.

[waffle-on-blog]

A Brief History of The Technology of Human Communication

By Simon Farley

PART I In which the writer retreats from the scrutiny of law enforcement agencies to a land bereft of extradition treaties, wherein he marries a pigeon.

I have a problem with the internet. Or rather, I think the internet has a problem with me.

I recently suffered a grave indignity. My Facebook account was put on 'enforced hiatus' because three years ago I created a fan page for the fine and noble bloodsport of 'Hating Simon Farley', that is, hating this guy who is writing at you presently. Prior to this, I hadn't realised I was capable of abusing myself. Well, I did, but that's completely different and what I do in my own time is between me and Jesus, okay? Okay. Within days, I was suffering severe withdrawal symptoms and I sank into an inky-dark, fathomless depression, because my self-esteem is inextricably linked to how many likes I get on my statuses. During this stage, I allegedly covered the walls and ceiling of my bedroom with the words 'Mark Zuckerberg must die', written in my own blood. I can neither confirm nor deny this.

I was at the point of sending a strongly-worded email to Mr. Zuckerberg (a brief sample: “I know you don't have children yet, but by God, when you do...”), when I discovered that - alas! - not just one but all of  my various email accounts had been shut down. It turns out they had been frozen by the Australian Federal Police, again for my supposed 'crimes': impersonating medical professionals (what good is a medical degree anyway? I've seen Scrubs, I know what goes on), pubescent girls (the less you know about this, the better) and Nigerian princes. Just kidding, you guys, I am totally a Nigerian prince. Wire me money and I'll grant you three wishes! What? No, I'm pretty sure that's how it works.

How is a man (or even a woman! I hear they're on the internet now too!) meant to communicate with the rest of the world when every avenue is shut off from him? It's an injustice, an outrage, an affront to God himself! And I really need to let thousands of anonymous strangers know about it!

Oh... Right... Well, I suppose I do still have Twitter, but because I'm not famous (yet) and I don't promise my followers 'sexytimez', it's pretty much useless to me. Wait, no, now I remember: it's useless to everyone ever. Silly!

In summary, as I write this from my super secret refuge (which is totally not a dumpster) in a small Carribbean island, fully aware that the AFP are watching my every keystroke, I harbour just a little resentment for your fancy, modern forms of media and communication. So I looked to the past for guidance. How did people communicate in the foggy primordial age pre-1993? Faxes, telex machines, beepers, oh my! Oh what a world, what a world! But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that those technologies died out for a reason: they fucking suck. So I cast my mind further, further into the murky depths of Time. But what I found there wasn't too promising either.

Letters? Too slow.

Telegraph? Too Morse Codey.

Conveying messages via tiny self-piloting zeppelins? Too freaking awesome. (Someone please invent this. I will give you all the gold.)

And then, as if it fell from the heavens, an idea struck me, splattering upon my head and oozing down upon my unsuspecting and prominent nose. At least, I think it was an idea.

“Carrier pigeons!” I cried, as I spoke to one of the many real friends I have really made here for realsies, “That's where it's at!”

I shall presently list for your perusal some advantages of pigeon post:

•                     Pigeons have a 340 degree field of vision! How cool is that?!

•                     They also process visual information three times as fast as lame old humans, so they sort of see everything in slow motion (relative to us, I mean), which is why it always seems as if they leave it till the last minute to fly out of the way of a speeding car or, I dunno, a charging triceratops.

•                     They can carry more than words! So if you want to send people illicit substances or images, you totally can, conscience permitting. Additionally, they're super sneaky, so the popo won't see! Pigeons are basically the ninjas of the bird world., rivalled only by the Hokkaido Ninjabird, sometimes known as 'Death On Wings'.

•                     It's totally free, aside from the costs of purchasing and maintaining the pigeon(s). Take that, Capitalism!

•                     It makes you feel old-timey, and thus, like a total badass. Because everyone in the Past was awesome, without exception.

•                     Pigeons are deeply affectionate animals; they will be your friend forever. Moreover, as we all know, Friendship is Magic, and therefore, pigeons are magic, which makes you, the Lord of the Pigeons, a wizard. And that, my friends, is science.

•                     You can refer to them as 'skyrats', if that's what floats your boat.

On a beautiful tropical island afternoon not too long ago, I sat at a bench on the footpath, a loaf of bread in one hand and an hessian sack in the other. My eyes were narrowed, my fingers were twitchy and a sense of existential ennui swam around in the back of my mind.

The hunt was on.

I liberally scattered crumbs around my seat, not so many as to make my intentions obvious, but enough to attract interest. Yeah, I play it cool. It wasn't long before I had two or three wingéd dudes pecking around, checking me out. Yeah, me, the breadman. Not that old, strangely hairy dude in the tracksuit. Not that lady with the lazy eye or her toddler who has two lazy eyes and thus resembles a chameleon in tiny overalls. Me. But I was patient. I stayed all nonchalant, you know, just to see who else might show up. The pigeons that had arrived so far were quality, but I needed a little more than that if I was going to trust this bird with all my most important postcards and death threats. So I scattered some more crumbs, made a few little cooing noises, played some Barry White, and soon there were a good ten to fifteen pigeons all up in my business. Surprisingly, none of my (very existent) friends ran into me that whole time, indeed, around that point nobody seemed to be around at all. I was lucky- I didn't need anyone coming in and distracting my hard-won birds at such a crucial stage. Yep. The luckiest. A  lucky lucky luckylonely lucky luck boy.

It was then I saw him. It was as if a shining, golden aura surrounded him as he flew down and alighted on the bench beside me, looking up right into my eyes, head quizically turned to the side. He was the one. No, the One. I cast the loaf away, setting off what can only be described as a feathertornado of pigeons pecking and clawing at one another and occasionally at bread. As my prey began to fly off, I gently snatched him by the legs and calmly stuffed him into the bottom of the hessian sack, as he lovingly turned my hand into a five-digited lump of gore. Kicking away rogue skyrats, now maddened by the taste of blood, I hurried home, shrieking and sobbing in a manful display of triumph and courage.

END OF PART I (Stay tuned for Part II coming soon...)

[waffle-on-blog]

Without technology I am...

Can you answer that question? What would you be without the technology that surrounds you? Better? Worse? Mad? How would it change your life? Perhaps you would finally get all that study done… Perhaps you would go quietly insane…

Answer this question in any way, through a photo, video or written piece. Anything that illustrates how you would live in a world (temporary or permanent) without the myriad of technologies we have come to accept as necessary. Any submissions are very welcome :)

[nevermix-neverworry]

Making this in french just makes it that much better.

[waffle-on-blog]

It's that odd mix of laugh out loud funny and pitifully sad... also a cat.

[robomcfattycheesebuffalo]

[waffle-on-blog]

One of the cutest things I have seen in a long while which is not an animal. Wait is a shell with a face an animal?

[dailydankmeme]

[waffle-on-blog]

Prompt #1: Grandma finds the internet.

Put down your hand bag! We're not after your cookie recipe, Grandma, we swear. But we could use your articles! Although, we're not opposed to any delectable baked goods either.

Seriously, we're not picky.

[waffle-on-blog]

A Guide to Internet Fame

Well hi there! You look like you want to learn something new and helpful!

Well tough, I’m giving you something very average and pretty much useless, but don’t let that deter you from reading! (If you stop reading from now, I will know, and I will come to your house and move things around)

I present to you a guide to internet fandom, coming from a boy who has witnessed the rise, fall and horrific second comings of countless viral videos. By the end of this article you will discover:

I’m partly illiterate.

How to find the right content to make internet surfers “hang ten for you, dude!” (I might have mixed a few images up there)

How to carefully manage your internet fame. (Don’t go for too much too soon, but don’t act like a sedated geriatric who just fell out of his chair)

How to avoid mind-bogglingly stupid mistakes.

I think we should begin. I don’t care what you think.

Step One: Get some content in you

Some might call this step crucial, or even invaluable. I call it step one. I said it right up there. This is where you find the thing that is going to sky rocket you from pop culture follower to: “Hey isn’t that the guy who did that video once? Look it’s either him or one of the kids from One Direction, but he seems to have more father issues. Either way I’m not too fussed.”

Sounds great, right? RIGHT?!

You might find inspiration from nature: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQSNhk5ICTI

Or you might find it from the oppression of your people: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EY39fkmqKBM  

Or you might just be very, very misguided (feel free to never watch this one): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zaONHJZb9-Y&feature=fvwrel

Or you could travel deep into the damaged part of your psyche and pull out a whole bunch of emotions and just let ‘em rip (never be afraid to do this): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9MA0eW8yyw

It doesn’t really matter what you pick, as long as someone out there connects/finds it funny/finds it disturbing/is a serial chain e-mail sender and your video is the best they have.

Can’t find inspiration? I have help for you! Have an innate fear of small chairs? I…I can’t help you. But allow me to introduce you to the “Three Words Rule”, also known to no one ever as “McCartney’s Law”.

All you need to do is pick three words. Which words? Any words! Does bottle count? Of course it does! Are you stupid or something? Just link those three words in any way you can.

An example: dolphin, gosling, discrimination. Now, what I would make is a small animation of Ryan Gosling riding a dolphin while teaching a classroom full of young children about discrimination! I can hear the YouTube views rolling in, like some form of sick, twisted currency (if you get enough you can take legal custody of that kid from ‘David after Dentist’). If that idea doesn’t get you excited, just remember this formula has a success rate of ‘itsneverbeentried’ out of a possible 100%, so chin up, guys!

Step Deux: Manage your inevitable fame

Congratulations! You are now internet-famous! People between ages of 12 and about 35 know who you are, people above that still hate you and people below are still annoying.

Your video is now online and everyone is talking about you, remixing you, dubbing you over for a wider global audience. And sometimes, something magical happens! The old people internet (otherwise known as TV) has discovered you and now wants you to appear on a morning show to talk to the world about your success. Morning shows are great for two reasons: one, their banter is so gosh darn warm and natural that it’s like a Christmas dinner with family (and this time you don’t even have to pretend you know that one aunt's name!) and two, they help you reach those people who hate you; old people!

No, I’m very serious. It works. I’ve seen this. I’ve lived this. They will take it as appropriate and current because it’s on TV and will start quoting lines from it to younger relatives because they too want to feel young and beautiful again. Just like they did that summer back in '67 when the world opened up to them and they learned to let down their hair and turn that rock ‘n’ roll right up to 11, because it wasn’t their parent’s life. It was their life and they were going to live it how they pleased.

CRUCIAL POINT: DON’T OVER DO THIS!!!!!1!1!1one

There is a point where you can cash in on your new fame, but be careful not to do it too early, because you will regret it. Your original fans, the people of the internet, will turn on you (probably violently). They want to be the only ones to know you, they want to feel special and individual, and you should let that person feel like that, along with the other 55 million people who watched your video. Like Cory Worthington! Remember him? That kid who had an open house party when his parents were away and his house got trashed? That’s how he became famous, because humanity is failing. He was pretty big on the internet for two minutes, then he started touring, hosting a similar party in every state (I say ‘touring’ very tentatively). He got a manager, started talking about record deals and clothing lines.

You know why none of that happened? HE TRIED TOO MUCH TOO SOON AND BECAME ANNOYING. VERY ANNOYING. Don’t get annoying, because everyone will hate you. It’s a pretty good life rule as well, if you’re into that.

Step Drei: Don’t come back. Ever.

Well, it looks like that fame that you managed to build up has died down now. Less people are stopping you in the street to ask for autographs, with questions like: “Did you sing Chocolate Rain?” and, “Why on earth did you ever film that, let alone upload it? You sicko!” That period of your life is over and now you can now focus on the future, growing old, education, the housing market or something. You have gracefully stepped back from the limelight, letting another cat video take your place. Well done.

If you haven’t done that and you make a follow up video trying to keep that fame alive, I hate you, and I really mean that.

Never follow up. Ever (another good life rule), It’s a sure fire way for people’s impressions of you to change from, “Who?” to, “Oh, that guy. Yeah, I guess he was annoying. Why are you asking me all these questions? I’m really hung over. Please leave me alone,” and that isn’t what you want.

Do you remember the Numa Numa guy? The way internet fame works, you shouldn’t. The fact that you do shows that he tried way too hard to keep it going. Oh look, he has a whole channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/newnuma?feature=results_main

For the love of God, don’t be him.

Anyway, I’ve taught you all I can! Now go. Go become famous for about four months, then fade into obscurity! From what I’ve heard, it’s pretty rad, dudes…?

Words by Matt “Beelzebub” McCartney

[theghastlyordealofcorey]

[waffle-on-blog]

Introducing our new theme: Online/Offline!

Feel inspired? Well we're not responsible for any of your Charles Blondin-esque escapades. But if you were to let your creative juices gush like the Niagara, then please do send your articles, works of art, songs and assorted pieces our way. We'd would love to publish your submissions!

And just remember now, folks: Waffles are best enjoyed with gushing waterfalls of maple syrup. And only maple syrup.