Breaking bad wins! And I've never even watched it (except for the thirty seconds where the pizza hits the shingles)
Atlas Shrugged is getting ponderous, man, ponderous. She (Rand) is so full of moral platitudes at this point in the book that I almost dread finishing it. I might have to make some changes to make it a little more entertaining.
THE
TEXT ONLY RE-WRITE
AARDVARK
Atlas Shrugged vs Breaking Bad
Moderators: AArdvark, Ice Cream Jonsey
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Ice Cream Jonsey
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Ice Cream Jonsey
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What other media could he be talking about in this thread?pinback wrote:What does this even mean? What shows do that? What are you talking about?AArdvark wrote:Breaking Bad doesn't shove liberalism at you by the page loads, does it?
What political philosophy could that media constantly expunge?
the dark and gritty...Ice Cream Jonsey!
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My mind has been very jumbled lately. I'm unable to accomplish even the simplest tasks or understand the simplest conversations.
I'm attributing it to the mental and physical stresses of moving into a new home.
(Probably the result of long-term alcohol abuse, though.)
I'm attributing it to the mental and physical stresses of moving into a new home.
(Probably the result of long-term alcohol abuse, though.)
I don't have to say anything. I'm a doctor, too.
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AArdvark
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CHAPTER I
"Who is John Galt?"
"What did you say?" asked Eddie Willers, his voice tense.
The bum leaned against the side of the Taggart Transcontinental building; "Why, does it bother you?" he asked.
"No, it doesn't," snapped Eddie. He reached hastily into his pocket. The bum had stopped him and asked for a dime, Pleas for dimes were so frequent in the streets these days that it was not necessary to listen to explanations, and he had no desire to hear the details of this bum's story.
"Go get your cup of coffee," Eddie said, dropping the dime on the sidewalk.
"Thank you... suit," said the bum, without interest,
Eddie pulled his shoulders straight, in conscientious self-discipline. He walked on, reminding himself that he was late in returning to the office. He did not like the task which he had to perform on his return, but it had to be done. So he did not attempt to delay it, but made himself walk faster to the entrance.
Whenever he entered the Taggart Building, he felt relief and a sense of security. This was a place of competence and power. The floors of its hallways were mirrors made of marble. The frosted rectangles of its electric fixtures were chips of solid light. Behind sheets of glass, infinite rows of monkeys sat at typewriters, working on their Shakespeare. As he walked through the spotless halls into the office of James Taggart, President of Taggart Transcontinental.
Jim Taggart sat at his desk. He looked like a man approaching fifty, who had crossed straight to middle age from adolescence, without the intermediate stage of youth. His thin hair clung to a bald forehead. His posture had a limp, decentralized sloppinesss, a body with an elegance of line intended for the confident poise of an aristocrat, but transformed into the gawkiness of a lout. His eyes were pale and veiled, he looked obstinate and drained. He was thirty-nine years old.
He lifted his head with irritation, at the sound of the opening door.
"Fuck off. Don't bother me," said Taggart.
Eddie Willers walked toward the desk. "It's important, Jim," he said, not raising his voice.
"Taggert sighed dramatically. "All right, what is it?"
"It's the Rio Norte Line. We've had another incident."
"Shit happens. Why you bothering me with that?"
"You know what I'm talking about, Jim."
For the past six months The Taggart Rio Norte Line had been plagued by maurading bands of hairless Mexican chiuahuas with guns.
"Yeah, so?"
Eddie continued as if there had been no answer: "The chiuahuas (he pronounced it chee-wow-wows) shot the engineer and conductor in the ankles this time. It's no use trying to run dog food trains down there. People are giving up trying to use them."
"There isn't a railroad in the country that doesn't have problems like ours," said Taggart. "We're not the only ones."
Eddie just stood and looked at him silently. Taggart's biggest dislike about Eddie was his habit of trying to look straight at people. Willers had a lazy eye, the left one, and now it appearead as though he was addressing the telephone on Taggart's desk. It made him edgy.
"So what do you want from me?" snapped Taggart.
"I came to tell you something you ought to know, because somebody had to tell you."
"So we've had another incident. Roll up a newspaper and smack them on the nose for crying out loud."
"Jim, when gangs of dogs run around sticking up trains with guns it's time to take it seriously. We can't give up the Rio Norte Line."
"Give up? Who's thinking of giving up the Rio Norte Line?" he asked. "There's never been any question of giving it up. I resent your saying that to my office furnishings. I resent it very much."
"What? Listen Jim. Shit's fucked down there. How long can we last?"
"You're a pessimist, Eddie. You lack straight vision. Er, I mean, that's what undermines the morale of an organization, lack of vision."
"You mean nothing's going to be done about the attacks on the Rio Norte Line?"
"I didn't say that. Just as soon as we get the new bullet proof overalls for the trainmen we can deal with the gangs of those little bug-eyed bastards."
"Jim, that's the problem. There aren't going to be any bullet proof overalls. I've just come back from the offices of Associated Textiles.
"So?"
"So they only make clothes for amputees. Every pair of metal overalls has only one leg hole. That's why the contract price was so cheap.
"Well, fuck. Hmmm, could we maybe have our engineers cut off one leg?" Said Taggart. "I could speak to the union..."
"Jim," said Willers, addressing the rolodex this time. "This really is serious."
Taggart smiled; "It's touching, Eddie," he said. "Your devotion to Taggart Transcontinental. If you don't look out, you'll turn into one big ulcer."
"That's what I am, Jim."
"But is it your job to discuss these matters with me?"
"No, it isn't."
"Then why come to me? Why don't you report all this to whoever's concerned? Why don't you cry on my dear sister's naked shoulder?"
Willers reddened. "Look Jim, I know it's not my place to talk to you. But I don't understand what's going on. I don't know what it is that your advisers tell you, or why they can't make you understand. So I thought I'd try to tell you myself."
"I appreciate our friendship, Eddie, but do you think that entitles you to walk in here unannounced whenever you wish? Considering your own position, shouldn't you remember that I'm president of Taggart Transcontinental?"
This was wasted on Eddie. He only appeared lightly puzzled. He looked at Taggart and the pencil sharpener at the same time. "Then you don't intend to do anything about the Rio Norte Line?"
"I haven't said that. I haven't said that at all. Just as soon as the Mexican Federales can get some stinking badges they are going to eradicate those little hairless fucks, and I'm going to laugh."
"I'm sure you will, Jim."
Taggart turned, startled by the passive agressive tone in Eddie's voice. "What's the matter with you?"
"You know what's the matter. Your sister said.."
"Damn my sister!" said Taggart.
Eddie Willers turned a deeper shade of pink but did not reply. He stood looking at Jim and the ashtray on the desk. After a moment, he bowed and walked out.
In the anteroom, the clerks of Taggart's personal staff were switching off the lights, getting ready to leave for the day. But Pops Harper, chief clerk, still sat at his desk, twisting the levers of a half-dismembered typewriter. Everybody in the company had the impression that Pops Harper was born in that particular corner at that particular desk and never intended to leave it. He had been chief clerk for Taggart's father.
Pops glanced up at Eddie Willers as he came out of the president's office.
"Say, Eddie, know where I could get some woolen undershirts?" he asked. "Tried all over town, but nobody's got 'em."
"Well, I know where you can get some one armed sweaters pretty cheap," said Eddie to the wastebasket. "Why do you ask?"
"I been askin' everybody. Maybe somebody'll tell me. It's cold in this joint," said Pops. "It's going to be colder this winter."
"What's the matter with that thing?" asked Willers looking at the typewriter and the coat rack behind Pops.
"Oh, it's those monkeys. They almost got a first draft of MacBeth but one of 'em went apeshit on this thing. I'm not going to requisition a new typewriter. The new ones are made of tin, cheaper than a bowery whore. When the old ones go, that'll be the end of Shakespeare. Say, You ought to go home, Eddie, turn on the radio and listen to a good dance band. Trouble with you is you never had a hobby. Somebody stole those new electric light bulbs again, from off'n the back staircase. I've got a pain in my chest from fallin down the stairs in the dark. Couldn't get any cough drops with codeine in 'em anymore, the drugstore on our corner went all organic last week. They closed the Queensborough Bridge yesterday for temporary repairs. Oh well, what's the use? Who is John Galt?"
"Who is John Galt?"
"What did you say?" asked Eddie Willers, his voice tense.
The bum leaned against the side of the Taggart Transcontinental building; "Why, does it bother you?" he asked.
"No, it doesn't," snapped Eddie. He reached hastily into his pocket. The bum had stopped him and asked for a dime, Pleas for dimes were so frequent in the streets these days that it was not necessary to listen to explanations, and he had no desire to hear the details of this bum's story.
"Go get your cup of coffee," Eddie said, dropping the dime on the sidewalk.
"Thank you... suit," said the bum, without interest,
Eddie pulled his shoulders straight, in conscientious self-discipline. He walked on, reminding himself that he was late in returning to the office. He did not like the task which he had to perform on his return, but it had to be done. So he did not attempt to delay it, but made himself walk faster to the entrance.
Whenever he entered the Taggart Building, he felt relief and a sense of security. This was a place of competence and power. The floors of its hallways were mirrors made of marble. The frosted rectangles of its electric fixtures were chips of solid light. Behind sheets of glass, infinite rows of monkeys sat at typewriters, working on their Shakespeare. As he walked through the spotless halls into the office of James Taggart, President of Taggart Transcontinental.
Jim Taggart sat at his desk. He looked like a man approaching fifty, who had crossed straight to middle age from adolescence, without the intermediate stage of youth. His thin hair clung to a bald forehead. His posture had a limp, decentralized sloppinesss, a body with an elegance of line intended for the confident poise of an aristocrat, but transformed into the gawkiness of a lout. His eyes were pale and veiled, he looked obstinate and drained. He was thirty-nine years old.
He lifted his head with irritation, at the sound of the opening door.
"Fuck off. Don't bother me," said Taggart.
Eddie Willers walked toward the desk. "It's important, Jim," he said, not raising his voice.
"Taggert sighed dramatically. "All right, what is it?"
"It's the Rio Norte Line. We've had another incident."
"Shit happens. Why you bothering me with that?"
"You know what I'm talking about, Jim."
For the past six months The Taggart Rio Norte Line had been plagued by maurading bands of hairless Mexican chiuahuas with guns.
"Yeah, so?"
Eddie continued as if there had been no answer: "The chiuahuas (he pronounced it chee-wow-wows) shot the engineer and conductor in the ankles this time. It's no use trying to run dog food trains down there. People are giving up trying to use them."
"There isn't a railroad in the country that doesn't have problems like ours," said Taggart. "We're not the only ones."
Eddie just stood and looked at him silently. Taggart's biggest dislike about Eddie was his habit of trying to look straight at people. Willers had a lazy eye, the left one, and now it appearead as though he was addressing the telephone on Taggart's desk. It made him edgy.
"So what do you want from me?" snapped Taggart.
"I came to tell you something you ought to know, because somebody had to tell you."
"So we've had another incident. Roll up a newspaper and smack them on the nose for crying out loud."
"Jim, when gangs of dogs run around sticking up trains with guns it's time to take it seriously. We can't give up the Rio Norte Line."
"Give up? Who's thinking of giving up the Rio Norte Line?" he asked. "There's never been any question of giving it up. I resent your saying that to my office furnishings. I resent it very much."
"What? Listen Jim. Shit's fucked down there. How long can we last?"
"You're a pessimist, Eddie. You lack straight vision. Er, I mean, that's what undermines the morale of an organization, lack of vision."
"You mean nothing's going to be done about the attacks on the Rio Norte Line?"
"I didn't say that. Just as soon as we get the new bullet proof overalls for the trainmen we can deal with the gangs of those little bug-eyed bastards."
"Jim, that's the problem. There aren't going to be any bullet proof overalls. I've just come back from the offices of Associated Textiles.
"So?"
"So they only make clothes for amputees. Every pair of metal overalls has only one leg hole. That's why the contract price was so cheap.
"Well, fuck. Hmmm, could we maybe have our engineers cut off one leg?" Said Taggart. "I could speak to the union..."
"Jim," said Willers, addressing the rolodex this time. "This really is serious."
Taggart smiled; "It's touching, Eddie," he said. "Your devotion to Taggart Transcontinental. If you don't look out, you'll turn into one big ulcer."
"That's what I am, Jim."
"But is it your job to discuss these matters with me?"
"No, it isn't."
"Then why come to me? Why don't you report all this to whoever's concerned? Why don't you cry on my dear sister's naked shoulder?"
Willers reddened. "Look Jim, I know it's not my place to talk to you. But I don't understand what's going on. I don't know what it is that your advisers tell you, or why they can't make you understand. So I thought I'd try to tell you myself."
"I appreciate our friendship, Eddie, but do you think that entitles you to walk in here unannounced whenever you wish? Considering your own position, shouldn't you remember that I'm president of Taggart Transcontinental?"
This was wasted on Eddie. He only appeared lightly puzzled. He looked at Taggart and the pencil sharpener at the same time. "Then you don't intend to do anything about the Rio Norte Line?"
"I haven't said that. I haven't said that at all. Just as soon as the Mexican Federales can get some stinking badges they are going to eradicate those little hairless fucks, and I'm going to laugh."
"I'm sure you will, Jim."
Taggart turned, startled by the passive agressive tone in Eddie's voice. "What's the matter with you?"
"You know what's the matter. Your sister said.."
"Damn my sister!" said Taggart.
Eddie Willers turned a deeper shade of pink but did not reply. He stood looking at Jim and the ashtray on the desk. After a moment, he bowed and walked out.
In the anteroom, the clerks of Taggart's personal staff were switching off the lights, getting ready to leave for the day. But Pops Harper, chief clerk, still sat at his desk, twisting the levers of a half-dismembered typewriter. Everybody in the company had the impression that Pops Harper was born in that particular corner at that particular desk and never intended to leave it. He had been chief clerk for Taggart's father.
Pops glanced up at Eddie Willers as he came out of the president's office.
"Say, Eddie, know where I could get some woolen undershirts?" he asked. "Tried all over town, but nobody's got 'em."
"Well, I know where you can get some one armed sweaters pretty cheap," said Eddie to the wastebasket. "Why do you ask?"
"I been askin' everybody. Maybe somebody'll tell me. It's cold in this joint," said Pops. "It's going to be colder this winter."
"What's the matter with that thing?" asked Willers looking at the typewriter and the coat rack behind Pops.
"Oh, it's those monkeys. They almost got a first draft of MacBeth but one of 'em went apeshit on this thing. I'm not going to requisition a new typewriter. The new ones are made of tin, cheaper than a bowery whore. When the old ones go, that'll be the end of Shakespeare. Say, You ought to go home, Eddie, turn on the radio and listen to a good dance band. Trouble with you is you never had a hobby. Somebody stole those new electric light bulbs again, from off'n the back staircase. I've got a pain in my chest from fallin down the stairs in the dark. Couldn't get any cough drops with codeine in 'em anymore, the drugstore on our corner went all organic last week. They closed the Queensborough Bridge yesterday for temporary repairs. Oh well, what's the use? Who is John Galt?"
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Tdarcos
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'Vark, I never saw this until just now. I have to hand it to you, this was hilarious. Especially when you tied the maker of clothing for handicapped people with the guy looking for a woolen undershirt and mentioning cheap one-armed ones, that was brilliant and I am impressed, it was gut-busting funny.
"I really feel that I'm losin' my best friend
I can't believe this could be the end."
- No Doubt, Don't Speak
I can't believe this could be the end."
- No Doubt, Don't Speak
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Jizaboz
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Haha excellent work, Vark.
I tried to get into Breaking Bad but after about 10 episodes.. I actually started to get bored with it.
However, I tried reading Atlas Shrugged and I got bored A LOT FASTER.
I thought "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand was a great book up until the "what? wtf?" ending though in comparison.
I tried to get into Breaking Bad but after about 10 episodes.. I actually started to get bored with it.
However, I tried reading Atlas Shrugged and I got bored A LOT FASTER.
I thought "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand was a great book up until the "what? wtf?" ending though in comparison.
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