Our Blog's Big in Germany

Looking at the statistics of our thought temple, the online medium into which we pour our wisdom, authentically thinging the thing itself, the very blog, into the very essence of what it really is, I noticed that we were quite the trendy option among the knowledgable elite readership in die Mannschaft. The Rhineland loves the Tingy Wingys, and we respect that. We love Germany too. Particularly a club called the Matrix. You have to go under a highway through this tunnel to get there, this is where our Bar-hop leader pretended to run away once. I also remember crossing over it on the way back, the highway that is, although this is probably just the poor continuity of a hazy, drunk mind, climbing the stairs of a crazy kind of cement maze crossing over the roadway and winding back to the ground on the other side. I also remember there being a hot dog stand on the top and I ate a hot dog. I'd been to the outskirts of Berlin with a young girl I'd met at the club. I say young, not underage. Although I know I was the senior of the relationship. I'd been doing Johnny Wilkinson rugby free kicks on the dance floor all night (clenching my two fists direcly in front of me, squatting, and charging forward before gracefully transitioning into a looping, Tiger Woods like stroke of my golden left leg) and she was interested. I'd fallen on my face once or twice. Now she was brining me somewhere, I couldn't be sure where, but stop after stop rolled by. Or maybe I was following her. I can't be sure. But we did have an intimate moment in one of those Train Stations, and I remember that German Train Stations have one of the strangest stenches mine nose has ever smelt, like putting a tire in a waffle maker. But it was 5 in the morning and I had to go home. she gave me her number and I made a couple lucky guesses at different stops. People were heading to work and I was enthusiastically conveying my appreciation of all things Germany but also my frustration about an uncalled handball by the German Frings almost 10 years previously. I landed at what I believed to recall as our area. I couldn't find her number on my person anymore. I stumbled home and slept outside the hostel door with my knees at my chest, a ball, a ball of new experiences. Yes, we love Germany. The blog exists not only because you and I witness it, the blog exists unto itself for it is made of matter built of the most important fabrics, the fabric of great Germans.

For all the German readers I'd also like some help: there is a beer there with no words on it. the label is merely a man sitting outside of a mountain home on a wooden chair with a giant pipe and a mug filled with beer. This was the greatest beer I have ever had. What the hell was it??!! Vas is das.

Hell - Coming Soon

Hell is novel coming soon involving various collections of writing pertaining to the Minnesota Vikings.

"...The Vikings are a curious kind of organization, curious in that their futility seems to know no bounds nor confine to any kind of statistical odds saying that someday, somehow, they will break free from the chains of over a half century of embarrassment, ridicule, and haplessness. From the accepted mediocrity of Leroy Hoard, to the blessedly handicapped hands of Troy Williamson, to the bat shit crazy Demetrius Underwood, to the love orgy in the Roman Baths of Lake Minnetonka, and finally onto the prosthetic penis of Onterrio Smith, the Vikings have never ceased to amaze friend and foe alike. Let us journey, together, through the tales and folklore surrounding this baneful club."

Introduction, Hell

"I know Mike Tice, he's a good guy. I sat down with him some time recently and he bought me dinner and I think we should give him control of all decisions pertaining to the organization: finances, scouting, offense, defense, special teams, concessions, ownership. Glen Mason is a close friend of mine too and with what he's done at the 'U' he should be sworn in as his right hand man in all those decisions."

Sid Hartman, Hell

"McNabb..three step drop...pocket is collapsing around him...steps into the pressure..eyes, mind, and body frantically trying to co-coordinate with one another...lobs the ball into the ground...4th and 5 Minnesota on thier own 8 as the punt unit comes on..Kluwe standing on his own goal line..Flags everywhere..false start will pin the Viking further back..half the distance to their own goal line.. Let's pause now for a moment for station identification, THIS, is Minnesota Vikings football on the FAN."

Paul Allen, Hell

From Connor The Guitar aka "William Price" solo

*This is taken from the William Price Music Blog*

Like you, I was once a child. Unlike you, my mind reached absolute maturity and human potential when I was 9 months old. When I was young I never said that when I grew up I wanted to be a musician. I figured I'd be able to acquire slave minstrels to satisfy that leisurely pleasure of mine. However, certain things within the world have come to be. The music industry is - like the average human being toiling away with its monotonous routine and meaningless existence - slowly dying, and also slavery is frowned upon. And so, the very few among us able to answer the call of mother music have to take up our eternal spots at the composers stand and orchestrate the befuddled and lost masses.

Already, my music has done more to solve the Earth's crises' than anything before it: thanks to my sound waves the oil leak in the gulf coast is about to be plugged, brett favre is about to return to football, and you can all sleep easy at night knowing that the time spanning, people uniting, power of music is within my safe hands. And I haven't even upgraded my Garage Band yet.

Occasionally I'll take the time to sift through my thousands of letters of fan mail, accolades, and prayers for help that I receive daily via this My Space portal and so often I find people telling me: "Connor, I've been the biggest fan of your music since I was 11...And I was born in 1948." I'll say, "But I hadn't nearly begun to make music at that point in time," and they'll simply reply: "I know." This is the power my music has: the power to tear through the laws of the universe, to reverberate through time and space into ages before I was even born.

So you have to wonder: what glorious thoughts did Socrates have, while he pondered and listened intently to the sounds of my guitar? What genius did Einstein receive when my lyrics rushed over him like warm running water from the shower head? What greatness did Alexander acquire when my songs came pouring down from the clouds, whispering sweet somethings into his ear? Undoubtedly, my music has inspired some of the greatest thinkers of our time, and yet, there is still so much more inspiration to be perspirated upon you all.

What's Old Becomes New and What's New Becomes Classic

Strolling around through the glorious Tingy Wingy archives which are located in the French Alps I came across a post promising the return of the Tingy Wingy band member spoken in hushed tones as "Connor the Insane Guitar". We were never able to publish a link to the music due to a ferocious disagreement between Connor and Apollo, the greek God of music. Apollo thought the EP should be restricted to the pleasure of the Gods ears in Olympus, Connor wanted it to reach the masses. Nor were we able interview the notoriously reclusive Guitar. However, we've rediscovered the Myspace link in which Connor produced 3 songs that may or may not have reached the EP, we can just never be absolutely sure. Keep in mind that these were produced a year ago and would almost certainly have shattered the collective worlds mind if they had been released/discovered then. They still give you an all natural high that feels like nothing you've ever felt before.

Connor The Guitar Old-But-New-But-Now-Classic Music

A Short Story *+*

"Looks like its gonna storm," yelled Stacie, a 65 year old with a face like an armadillo's asshole. It was fucking dark as shit outside, and in the state of nebraska when it rain it pours. "Here in nebraska when it rains it pours," replied Doug, who being Stacie's neighbor was outside building a bird house. After a bit of silence Doug glanced at Stacie and screamed, "its for the birds." Stacie was all about the birds, she loved the shit out of birds--its a flying animal for christ sake. Humans locomotion is not as fun as a lot of other animals, but that goes without saying. Where are we? Oh ya in the middle of a story. If my writing so far has conveyed the almost undetectable subtle subtext to the plot thus far you already know that Stacie and Doug are neighbors and they get along pretty good over all. What Stacie didn't know about Doug would later come to shock her, but not quite in the way she was suddenly shocked by a 11,000 volt blast of lightening. "Fuckin crazy.... bitch ass lightening, what the fuck, aaahh for christ's sake you alright Stacie" shouted a panicked Doug.

Stacie, shook her head, winced in pain, grimaced - a little bitch grimace, and was for a second transported back into her mind... deep into the recessions of her past... she recalled an event, a traumatic event, one that had shaken her, and rattled her, like the rattle of a rattle snake except this event had no serpent, no it was nothing like a rattle snake. Although she did have a fear of snakes. That could be foreshadow or irrelevant. But our story is so far: A woman, Stacy, recently struck by lightening, thrown back into a menacing memoir or her morbid memory, menacing in pain in front of Doug, her neighbor, who may be the first to realize the true power and fright of Stacie's non snake induced scare that caused a split: A split in her that could never be repaired. "What are you fucking deaf Stacie?" cried Doug. Waiting for a response he squinted his eyes into the darkness trying to make out the steaming silhouette of Stacie. "Jesus, smells like someone burnt a beaver out here," mumbled Doug as he waded through the darkness in the general direction of where he could last make out Stacie. Meanwhile Stacy was being confronted by the demons of her dark past: an R-rated horror movie she saw when she was only 13-years-old, that time she almost went into the mens bathroom, the one time she'd accidentally used a racial slur, and something involving demonic possession. Doug was holding his 12-gauge shotgun that he liked to keep at hand during the fierce lightning storms of the Nebraska summer. You see, at that moment Doug too was struggling with the emotions that his memory evokes during weather like this. Doug was subject to something as well in his younger years: something involving his son, his farm animals, and bestiality. Let's just say he never wanted to use that shotgun again but let's also just say he never wanted to be caught again without it, and have to go and get it, and use it... on his own loved ones. Not that he loved them all that much....he killed them all with a gunshot in the head after all.

These neighbor's knew not of each others problems. They had problems enough of their own, and they lived in a world of separation. Their ancestor's lived differently--for most of human history had lived in tight nit tribes and would vary rarely encounter any other person who they did not know like family. Yet here these two people just feet from each other and knew hardly anything of one another. Did this disconnect in the world they were living in lead to the mistrust and tension that brought two minds to possession and murder. How much of modern psychiatrically defined mental illness was present in our predecessors and how much of it only results for the strange world that the forces of human culture have brought about.

Doug went back into his house. He opened a bag of oreos and turned on the game. The next time he looked at the back he had eatin 18 oreos. "Holy balls that is 22,000 calories and 65% fat," said Doug in a soft lisp. And he was right it was 22,00 calories and 65% fat. He suddenly had a vision of his wife giving him a pedantic glance as she put the bag back in the cabinets. It was times like this that he thought most about the murder he had committed. It was a hot summer day, the air was moist and somehow heavy. The family was cooling down inside when little Jimmy had the fucking dank idea of playing monopoly. "You son of a bitch Jimmy," yelled Doug happily "you read my mind, set that shit up." The family was stoked as fuck. They were about to enter a world of dice rolling, purchase, transaction, and chance. In other words they were entering a world of intense pleasure, where emotions are formless, timeless, and transcendental. This was not Doug's day with the dice. He had only the light blue property and electric company. It was a fucked up situation. Doug did not like to lose and could feel the anger rising inside them. That is when he snapped. "Dieeeeee!!!!!," he screamed. He shoved the fake money down his wife's throat as his son looked on in horror. "How would you like to be next Mr. Boardwalk you capatalist fuck," yelled Doug to his son. "You think you can monopolize the real estate system, I got make a living you prick." He beat his head into the ground with a nine iron. He cried for 3 minutes afterward, and turned on espn to see what was happening in the world of sports.

Doug had watched 4 episodes of the same ESPNNEWS now. You know it's a god awful day when you've heard John Clayton weasel about groin strains for 2 hours. Doug stirred, he had feint recollections of some noise, some bullshit, and an unhappy ending in his head. "God damn ESPN shows," he mumbled, stepping over some bloodied masses on the living room floor. But there were more pressing issues at hand. He'd been thinking about Stacy a lot lately and that maybe it was time for a new family. This is what humans did, they constantly created new relationships and broke off their old ones because their old ones sucked worse than the ones that had come before that. They also killed a lot of people they didn't like. So it's easy to understand Doug and his fragile being given that it had been warped and contorted from years occupying this planet like silly putty under the weight of a giant ass. Doug had been crushed by it all but he still pushed on admirably. And so Doug picked up his phone but then put it down and went and looked at porn. Doug picked up his phone later but he realized he didn't have Stacey's number. "Ah cunt.." he thought "what am I going to do now?" But then Doug thought of a most wonderful idea. Stacy had recently been hit by lightening, and was completely without memory, immobile, and in a serious condition at the local emergency room. "I'll have her eating out of the palm of my hand," thought Doug, with some degree of literalness given her current state.

Classic Shit

"It's easy to earn respect. Once you learn how to kick someone's face in."

3 Ninjas

The Last Man Standing

Do you know what it feels like?

To be the last man standing-

the last man standing.

-The Last Man Standing (2011)

Come rest, my ridiculed fantasy finder. Take a seat upon the stories of yesteryear. I've come to tell you a great tale, a fable of old, that for the attentive listener will bear fruits to hold. Once upon a time, a springtime perchance, we happen upon a Leary fellow, a non start, no chance. And in his heart, a hole. For in his heart there lied a burning melody, a song through time worn and old, and this man you see out of chance is merely just of average mold, it's told.

But deep in the seats of restless fixation there grew a monster bold. That told him to shake, told him to rumble, told him to disrupt his labors to the point of dysfunction. It was a beast that tore him into two, one that grew and grew and grew and grew. One day he could no longer control himself, and this became the wolf Michael himself.

Stolen from his childhood, his parents withdrew, out of cause unbeknown to me and to you. Listen closely, do as your told, for here, the story of Michael is about to unfold:

Scene One: An orgy, in the den of Sin.

Tingy Wingy Manifesto

Us here at the Tingy Wingy brain collective have been closely following the recent movements and changes sweeping the globe. We've witnessed and watched, with great interest, the collective effort of the Occupy movements across our daunting country. We've viewed and heard of the ideas sweeping the East regarding a more representative and democratic government. And we ourselves have been debating, rhetorizing, and searching the deepest recessions of our own souls for answers. As a leading, nay, trail blazing publication of national interest we here at the Tingy Wingy's factory of civil justiceness have concluded that it is time to make our interests known.

Creed #1: The '98 Vikings won the Super Bowl. We did. It's rule #1.

Creed #2: Thou shalt not own slaves. This is just as important as #1 and traditionally overlooked by all other religious doctrines.

Creed #3: Thou shalt not listen to Creed. They suckst.

Creed #4: Dragons are real. If we should promote one idea of myth it should be dragon lore. Woe unto thee who does respect the dragon.

Creed #5: Make it legal. Respect the foundations of the creed.

Creed #6: Follow your own creed, but respect the Tingy Wingys before all others.

an uprising or a rising up?

how do you pose an important question when all questions are questions of the past? are we in the future or are we living in the realm of what i like to call the jigglevault? the laws of physics tell us that jigglypuff could not exist without collapsing in upon itself and yet i play video games in which i see the jigglyflesh with mine own eyes? explain the discrepensy. answer the call physics theorists across this lonely blue dot of ours. what equations have you for the jiggly flesh of the one and only jiggly puff. it is time to get out the pens and papers and calculators and other supplies and get to work

what do you do

decide what u r going to do everyday. make decisions. always consider the pudding. there is almost always a pudding box to be made in the closet and yet when does anybody say fuck its time for puddy. to me that only points to the fact that we r not living in a very reflective time period. we r on the go and we r putting on a show. in an age in which we had the mindset of being careful then surely we would be baking a lot more putting. this i do not doubt

2 Year Anniversary, Beatz, and the Meaning of Life

Have you ever just not wanted to sleep? Sleep's a bitch, because you're not awake. I don't believe in things which I'm not awake for, thus, I believe that everything I've experienced while sleeping has been closer to fiction than reality. I think that's a valid point "says my drunk ass". Listen, listen besides my thoughts on sleeping there's another reason for this writing: another thing that's been coming up in my thoughts: different from what I'm saying now...But really if you never sleep can you still dream? Is dreaming actually that different from reality? Are both not just products of the same construction?

The Baha Men, circa 2004