Thursday, December 30, 2004

Hep Cat!

As has probably come to be pretty evident, I'm quite a catch in the relationship department. Because of this, from time to time friends of mine have tried to set me up with different women. This has rarely worked out, but when it does, it's fine. I'm not somebody to turn down a shot at free vagina. Coincidentally, "A Shot at Free Vagina" is the name of a shooting gallery at my neighborhood porn store. At least it's a wall of rubber vaginas that I call a shooting gallery. Whatever.

Well, a friend of mine recently said that there was a girl that was really cute that he wanted to set me up with. He described her, physically (I mean that he described what she looked like, not that we were playing a game of charades), to me, and everything sounded fantastic. I was kind of excited about the idea of meeting this girl. I wasn't too worried about her finding me attractive since, as is obvious, chicks dig a man in a Mexican wrestling mask.

But, like everything in my life, there was a little caveat attached to the end of this idea. He informed me that the girl who I may be meeting sort of had a problem. No, she wasn't retarded (as we know, that's no problem with me), and, no, she didn't used to be a man (again, probably not a problem with me). He kind of snuck in the fact at the very end of the conversation that this girl, this really cute girl, kind of had a case of Hepatitis C. And also, that she got this Hepatitis C because she used to be a drug addict. Oh, and one more thing, that I didn't really need to worry about her having Hepatitis C for long because she asked Jesus to get rid of it for her, so now it was just a matter of time until it was all cleared up. Because Jesus is just like a box boy at a supermarket. Some kid got into a box of Hepatitis C in the store, "Cletus, clean-up on aisle six please. It's the Hepatitis again!"

Although she sounds like quite the catch, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to pass on this situation. Even somebody as shallow as my ass couldn't look past a former junkie with Hep C and a case of Jesus Jonesing (not the disease where people break into "Right Here, Right Now" at any moment, it's one's constant jonesing for Jesus), just for a chance at maybe bumping uglies with a cute girl. Maybe it's because I'm selfish and I actually enjoy having a functioning liver. What a fucking dick I am.

On a completely different note, I found out yesterday that I've been a grumpy dick for a long time. I was cleaning out a bunch of shit in my room--getting rid of the mounds of unnecessary crap that a pack rat like myself accumulates--when I ran across a journal that I had to write when I was in sixth grade. This was an ongoing journal, a dialogue of sorts, that we maintained with the teacher. She would write back and respond to things that we wrote. Well, I was writing about how excited I was to turn twelve because, in my house, that meant I could babysit (Jesus Christ, I was so goddamn gay). Then, in a later entry, I wrote about how I was glad that my mom let me babysit my younger brother as a trial run because it taught me how much I hated kids. I even used the word hated. I was so proud of the prepubescent me because I had always wondered when I began to become such a rock-solid piece of evil crap and now I know: the sixth grade. There are still bits of childish innocence interspersed throughout, but there is an occasional sentence where I may as well have been writing about how much I wanted to rape a coma victim.

Interesting thought of the day:
Do people with Tourette's Syndrome ever say stuff that even surprises them? "Did I just say, 'I want to fuck a lifeboat?' What the hell is wrong with me?"

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

My TiVo Thinks I Hate Jesus!

For Christmas I got a TiVo from my older brother. He recently switched jobs and he's making crazy money. Not that he's well paid, he works at a printing press where they create funds to be used in Mental Institutions. Puns are fun and educational.

Well, I have been getting acquainted with my newly-acquired TiVo and he probably hates me by now. See, TiVo tries to learn what you like to watch so it suggests and records things that it thinks you will like. The first day I got it was Christmas and the History Channel was showing a bunch of stuff about religion. I like watching this stuff because it's interesting. I told TiVo that I wanted to record this thing I saw a commercial for about people's ever-changing beliefs in God and Hell that was supposed to be on the next day.

I woke up the next morning and, to my surprise, TiVo decided that, since I wanted those other things, I'd probably really enjoy everything on PAX, some other Jesus network, and all of the Sunday morning church services. So I went through the list deleting everything and giving it three thumbs down (this is something that you do through TiVo, I wasn't standing in my room booing the television using both my hands and the pickled thumb of Betsy Ross--another awesome Christmas present, thanks, Uncle Rick!). Now I think I've probably confused the shit out of my TiVo. Maybe it thinks I had a dream that night where Jesus and the disciples raped me so I could no longer stand the thought of religion. I want to explain to my TiVo that this isn't the case--I've always hated Jesus--but I don't know how. I feel like I should let it sympathy tape something for me just so it doesn't judge me so harshly. I think I'll tell it to tape Benny Hinn since that's always hilarious. I love when people get "bowled over" by the power of Christ. I can't believe people actually buy that shit. I've actually seen him "throw" heals, baseball style, at people. Sofa king we todd did (if you don't get that, read it slowly and/or say it out loud to your gay uncle). I've also seen him go down a line of people touching them all as they fall over like goddamn dominoes. The only thing that would have made that better is if he pulled an Ice Cube from Boyz in the Hood and said, "Domino, motherfucker," after he did it. Then he primps his Jerry curl.

Poor Jerry. He had an entire hairstyle named after him and it's horrible. Well, I was just going through google looking for a picture of Ice Cube with a Jerry Curl and found a picture of two guys making out. Thanks, internet! So forget about going off on that tangent. I know a picture of an ice cube melting from some eighty-year-old amputee's butthole is two clicks away, so I'll pass.

In a few days I've got to start looking for a job and I'm starting to worry my pretty little head off. I need to find a job writing somewhere and that's going to be hard because almost every writing sample I have has something that most working environments would deem inappropriate; I sign all my writings by spraying it with my semen. I could go for that editing job at "Semen Calligraphy Weekly," but I don't want to get pigeonholed. In spellchecking the word calligraphy, I found a hole in the internet. If you dare, check out what happens when you misspell calligraphy at I spent forty-five minutes wondering if I had spelled it right. By the way, a lot of people actually misspell the word 'misspell.' Put that in a song, Alanis.

Interesting thought of the day:
Rub raw bacon on public toilet seats and then carry it with you wherever you go. It works great as a breath freshener.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

A Very Atheistic Christmas!

Hello boys and girls! Would you like to hear the real story of Christmas? Of course you would. Hang on tight. It's about to get jolly as a motherfucker in this bitch!

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Just one thing was stirring, a man holding a blouse.
Some stockings were hung by the chimney with care
As the man sniffed the blouse and humped a pillow in the bare.

The children were nestled all snug in their bed
And you would be, too, if you had been dead.
The man used a kerchief and dried off his sack
And just settled down for a long winter's nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Grabbed a copy of his manifesto, a knife, and Steve Nash*.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen whore,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the blood and the gore.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, filled with murder and fear.

With a little old driver, bright red and masturbatin'
He knew in a moment it was his Overlord, Satan.
More rapid than eagles his demons they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Marcus! now, Steven! now, Dashel and Vincent!
On, Hopscotch! on, Laser! On Pencil and Cake!"
The moment those names didn't rhyme, he was shocked,
But the names always rhyme in this storybook schlock.

At least they all used to--back when he was seven,
Back when there was Santa, the Toothfairy, and Heaven.
Now there were bills, divorce, and his kids,
Who, upstairs, had suffered a late case of SIDS.

Just then, in a twinkling, he heard on the roof,
The SWAT team and a helicopter appear in a poof.
"Come out with your hands up! We've got you surrounded!"
They actually say that? He thought, astounded.

He quickly dressed all in fur, and threw out his knife,
But his clothes were all tarnished with brain, blood, and wife.
"I've got to do something," he said in a fright.
"Wait. I'll probably get off. After all, I am white."

Oh, his eyes--how they twinkled that sad, vacant stare,
His cheeks were like doughnuts, his nose an eclair.
His thin lips were grimaced much like a demon,
And the rest of his face was covered with his own semen.

"I can never plead insanity. That just won't do.
I'm far too together and cock-a-doodle-doo!"
He shit in his pants and things became smelly,
It shook when he laughed like a bowlful of shit**.

He stood at the front door and prepared for his demise,
When a swelling down below in his pants began to rise.
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
He came in his pants, now a mix of white, brown, and red.

He spoke not a word, but he opened the door,
And giggled and laughed because he knew what they were in for***.
Then laying a finger aside of his nose,
He knew he was invisible and tipped on his toes.

Before he could fly away into the sky,
A nine millimeter bullet tore through his eye.
"Holy shit! Goddamn! Fuck! Motherbitch! Ouch!" He cried.
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all, a good-night!"

*Steve Nash appears courtesy of the Phoenix Suns in association with the Reading is Fundamental program. For more information, log onto their website.

**Shit is the Ancient Hebrew word for jelly.

***The grammatically correct version of this line should read: He spoke not a word, but he opened the door,/And giggled and laughed because he knew for in what they were.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

Hula The Dogs Out?

Man, that title hurts my feelings, but I'm keeping it up there, so up yours, buddy. Right up it.

I was looking through the near twenty notes on my desk written on the back of a Far Side comic-a-day calendar from 2001 and I found this thing I figured I'd write about today.

A while ago I was watching the show Ripley's Believe it or Not! and in this particular episode there was a one-legged Hawaiian woman who loved to Hula dance. I was happy because it actually showed her dancing and she looked like a gimped version of those things that sit out front of stores that move all crazy when the wind goes through them. I'm not talking about Open-Sore Larry, but it's this thing that's made of cloth or some other space-age material that whips around. Well, the voiceover was saying things about how inspiring it is that this three-fourths version of an actual woman pursued her dreams to Hula dance. That's all well and good, then I learned what bastards there are in Hawaii when the narrator said that she "had proven skeptics wrong" by learning to do this. Who in the Hell is telling her that she can't do this?

The woman is practicing on her front lawn. A man walks by with his daughter.

"Hey, Skippy! What the fuck are you doing trying to Hula dance? Why don't you leave that to the people with two legs?" He grabs his daughter's arm and hurries down the sidewalk. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Honey, but goddammit, some people just don't know when they should give up pursuing their dreams and that makes Daddy very angry."

Days later, a crowd of protestors gathers on her lawn holding signs like "You don't even have two left feet!" and "Hula Foola!" People in Hawaii rarely make signs for things because they're always too busy overpricing their food and pretending that the sand there isn't hot to make the tourists feel inferior, so their signs are always really shitty.

I really doubt that the show was being overly dramatic, either. I'm sure that all Hawaiian people hate amputees and especially hate it when they try to do their native dance.

I respond to reader's questions:
Carl Click writes:

So you built up this long description of two people deserving only the most violent of deaths, and then ended it? i was expecting more story, less set-up. You should have lied and said that in the end you saw their faces and they were your parents! what a twist.

Well, I was going to say that they were DEAD THE WHOLE TIME! But I heard that somebody else did that before me then went on to make three mediocre movies.

Andrew (of the hilarious site, The Scamboogah Daily Rag) writes:
If you respond to reader questions, then what about mine. Where the fuck is my Ensure?!

I would send you some Ensure, but I know that your old ass would be dead by the time it got there and then it would be wasteful. If there's one thing I'm not, it's tall, but if there's two things I'm not, it's tall and wasteful.

By the way, Andrew, since I already stole some of your blog-network icons you use on your site, I was thinking about doing another thing I saw that you did on your site where you listed the names of people that you went to school with and wanted to get back in touch with. That was genius, my friend! So if you see me do that, I completely stole it from you, just like my uncle did with my anal virginity.

Interesting thought of the day:
You can swallow seven dollars and seventy-five cents worth of quarters before gravity begins to pull that weight through your stomach lining. It's fun when they come out, though, because it's like winning at a dirty, underwater slot machine.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Hat's Amore!

I'm kind of proud of that title, so you motherfuckers better appreciate it. You'll see what I'm talking about in a minute.

Yesterday I went out Christmas shopping in an effort to fully celebrate the birth of the one and only true Lord and Saviour Jesus Heccubah Christ. While I was out driving around the consumer's Bermuda Triangle that is Best Buy, Wal-Mart, and Target, I found myself behind a BMW convertible that had a couple in it. This is exactly the kind of couple that I wish would, minutes later after my seeing them, die in a fiery crash. I only saw them from behind, but I could tell just from the attire adorning their upper bodies that they were deserving of the aforementioned horrible death.

They were that couple that you see when you're out that are both wearing khaki shorts, white t-shirts tucked into those shorts, and some sandals with socks. The guy probably has his cell phone clipped on his belt and the woman (and probably the guy as well) has a fannie pack on. And the two bastards are both wearing hats that are the same make and style, but one is green and one is blue. That was this couple. They're the same ones that will both buy and wear the Mickey Mouse sweatshirt for fifty dollars at Disneyland. Goddamn I hate when people wear Mickey Mouse clothing at Disneyland. It's like a woman wearing a maternity dress to her abortion. Okay, that's not a good analogy and it doesn't actually add up, I just like the image of a woman wearing a maternity dress to an abortion clinic carrying a change of clothes in her gym bag.

Back to the two sons of bitches in the BMW. These are the same people who love to hang out at Pottery Barn together and probably have assorted meats delivered to their house. They pretend they know about wines and high society, but in all actuality, they bought a crate of twelve boxes of Sutter Homes White Zinfandel at Costco and call this their wine cellar. The woman puts her hair in a ponytail and pulls that through the hole in the back of the hat. That's got to be the most unattractive look for any woman, but especially this one who wears whore's-red lipstick. The guy has very hairy, white legs (which I know something about) and has no problem with his shorts being uncomfortably short to where if he has to step over something higher than knee height, like a homeless man, you may get a sneak peek at some bottom brain. They absolutely can't stand black people, but if you call them on it, they'll say that they have tons of black friends. This means that one of them works at an office with a black person in it that they accidentally saw at a bar once when they went out with the rest of their white friends. They give to charity, but only so they can tell people that they do to make them seem like they care about other people. They both ran for and won student body positions in their high school. The man has an unhealthy pornography collection and once beat a cheerleader to death in a school bathroom but got off because his dad knows the DA.

Sure I was driving behind these people for about ten seconds, but I know them. And I'm sure you do, too. If you don't know them, you are them.

I respond to reader's questions:
Whore writes, hey kurt. do you not have msn?

Yes? Wait. No. Huh? Yes, I do not have msn. No, I do not have msn. It's impossible for me to answer that question in a way that would mean I do have msn, so, nope. I don't have it.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

I'm a Filthy Liar!

I think what I wrote last entry was probably the dumbest thing ever written in the history of the written word (and probably heiroglyphics, too, because those Egyptians sure didn't fool around, they had slaves to beat). So, I'm not going to keep going along that line of writing. I'm tempted to erase that last entry from my blog, but I'll keep it there so those that hold me in such high regard as an expert in the field of letterology (the act of putting letters in a combination such that they form "words," the laymen call this writing) know that I'm just as capable of writing something absolutely shitty, too. And I don't need comments on this entry saying, "You know, you're right, that last entry did suck." I also don't need the ultra-ironic comment that says what I just wrote not to say in the previous sentence with one of those goddamn winky smiley faces next to it.

Anyway, on to what's really important.

This past Friday I took the last final of my college career at eight o'clock in the morning. After class, I went home and took a nap because I'm not used to waking up anywhere close to the higher single digits. Well, it was after this nap that I woke up feeling like I wanted to kill myself because I, apparently, had learned nothing of storytelling and steering clear of contrived, trite, cliche-like-a-motherfucker storylines.

I had the gayest dream ever.

No. Not the dream where I'm blowing Harrison Ford in a pool filled with petroleum jelly. I mean gay in the sense that it was absolutely retarded. Some people of the homosexual persuasion find that the use of the term gay in this manner is demeaning, but it's not, so shut your gay ass up.

My dream was straight out of allegory 101. I actually dreamt that I was running a goddamn race all slow-motion and shit like with the Chariots of Fire song playing and everything and I was crossing the finish line. Then, after I crossed the fucking finish line, somebody handed me a check for $4,000. This is when I started crying like a fat girl unlocking her cookie cupboard.

I woke up with an overwhelming desire to hang myself in effigy out front of my goddamn school where I, obviously, learned nothing. A goddamn race? Really, Kurt? Could that, perhaps, equate itself to your college career that you just finished, you fucking hack? Jesus Christ. Then I cried like the little bitch that I am for getting $4,000. Wow. This is something I'll sure be glad my grandkids find one day when they search the internet for their grandpa who died riding a surfboard in a tornado.

I have a lot more things to write about that I've been jotting down, but I'll save them until later.

Intersecting thought of the day:
When two lines meet and create two right angles, they are called perpendicular.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Guest writer: Uncle Earl!

I'm going to be away from the computer for the Holidays. Since I'm a very devout Christian--I'm going to be visiting Bethlehem--so I am going to have guest writers for the coming weeks. I may take a moment to introduce who they are, but aside from that, I'm going to devote all my time to thanking my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for being born in an easter basket in the back of a Denny's.

Today's writer is my Great Uncle Earl, an 83-year-old former steel mill worker, now doing odd jobs around town.

Goddamn gooks. God Damn gooks. I swear to Christ, if they would just let me get in a plane one more goddamn time I'd strap one of them A-bombs to it and drop that sonofabitch right in the heart of Japan just to remind those bastards that we ain't forgetting shit. Sixty-three years ago today those motherfuckers went all air-ninja-style on us shooting ninja stars and shit at us while we was keeping Hawaii safe.

I wish that fantastic film--cinematic masterpiece I call it--Pearl Harbor starring Ben Affleck and that black boy from that Tom Cruise movie who jumps around a lot like black people like to do, was on every year. Hell, every goddamn week. It shows exactly what happened to us.

I watch it a lot--every morning when I wake up and look through the paper for people selling military surplus--I watch it. But they say it affects my job. I refill candy machines at the local college. Well, sometimes, when I'm refilling, one of them Japs comes around a corner a little too fast and maybe I get a little fidgety. So, I may have, once or twice, hammerlocked one of them kids and shoved some Good 'N Plenty underneath his fingernails. It's not my fault, the sneaky little fucker wouldn't talk. And no matter what they say, it's not because he couldn't speak English. He understood everything I was saying and he was trying to boobytrap the Mr. Goodbars. I know he was. If there's one thing that those people hate more 'bout us Americans than our freedom (Thanks, George W. Bush for that one--best president ever), it's our goddamn candy. And I'll fight to the death making sure that my fellow Americans that aren't Japanese or remotely slant-eyed in any sense can have their Famous Amos cookie or Milky Way--even for black people.

Now, I hope this thing works, I'm writing it at the Kinkos and there's this older lady who works here who I'm pretty sure wants to do it to me. Maybe I'll get lucky.

Well, turns out I had some mayonnaise on my face. I found that out when I tried to talk to her and she threw up. Well, looks like another night of thrashing around my flaccid penis crying to myself about my wasted youth.

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Goonies R Good Enough!

Yeah. This is the Cyndi Lauper song I chose to title this one after. It doesn't have anything to do with what I'm writing about, I just wanted to spite people who thought I'd go with "She Bop" or "True Colors," though "She Bop" would probably be much more appropriate.

Julia Roberts recently had twins, a boy and a girl. And, much like those who have come before her, she has given them names that will more than likely induce their first coke binge.

I haven't actually read any press on the babies, I've just read the headlines, but this is what I imagine they say.

Babies Hazel and Phinneaus marched their way out of the Pretty Woman's vagina early Sunday morning in a Southern California hospital. It wasn't a Pelican Brief affair. One eyewitness reports that the room sure didn't smell like Steel Magnolias or Mystic Pizza after her water burst either. Her baby Phinneaus, The Mexican, slid from the womb landing Full Frontal on his freshly severed umbilical cord. If she were alive, I'll bet this birth would have even made Mona Lisa Smile. Upon Closer questioning, Roberts said that she would like to have many more children. Could this be the new Ocean's Eleven or Ocean's Twelve? I'm going to go take a rusty cheese grater to my jugular now.

I hate when people who write entertainment news write shitty, easy stuff like that with a passion normally reserved only for small children and people who include stuff like "LOL" or ":)" after everything they write online. I actually could have included more of her movie titles in that, but I actually started to enjoy it. It's like a parasite that eats away at me. As I was writing it a commercial for the Blue Collar Comedy show came on and I almost didn't want to hunt down Jeff Foxworthy and sodomize him with a tire iron.

People often email me and ask why I hate retarded people so much. Actually, nobody ever emails me and the only interaction I have with the world is every ten years when I purposefully don't mail in my census form so the worker has to come to my house and help me fill out the form. Anyway, for the sake of this story, people always wonder why I hate retarded people. Well, truth be told, I don't hate them. In fact, I've touched one before.

The following is an actual story of something that happened to me in high school (I've got three pretty good retard stories, this ranks last on the list, maybe some day in the future I'll tell the other two):
It was my senior year and I was excited because all through high school I had seen the signs once a year about the blood drive in the gym. For some reason, I had this fascination with giving blood. I really wanted to give it, but you had to be seventeen or something. Finally, the day came when I could give blood and I quivered with girlish excitement at the thought. In the gym that afternoon, there were a bunch of people sitting around waiting to make sure they didn't have AIDS or tattoos or something and I was one of them. While I was sitting there waiting, my friends were across the gym floor feeding people juice, cookies, and shit (this was literal shit, too--I thought it was strange, but they said that nothing helps regenerate blood cells like a spoonful of recycled butternut squash) because they worked for ASB. The girl next to me, who I had suspected was a retard before she opened her mouth, confirmed this belief once she spoke. She was giving me that all-too-familiar look that I've come to learn: the longing look of a retarded girl who wants to bone me. She said to me, in retard, "Are you scared?"

I shot back in her native tongue, "No! I'm actually pretty excited!"

At this point she began to gnaw on a bag of blood on the table behind her and I thought I was done with the conversation. Alas, I was wrong. She said, "Are you sure you're not scared? You look scared."

I was tempted to ignore her because, being the asshole I am, noticed my friends were watching me from across the gym and snickering to themselves. But, for some reason, my heart wasn't in its horribly hardened and dark shape that it is now and I spoke again, "No. Really. I'm fine."

"Well," she replied, "I think you look scared and need a hug."

Fuck! I thought. Please, god, tell me that a hug is something different than actual physical contact to a retarded person--like they're Peter Pan or something.

However, once she stood up, held her arms out, and didn't say, "I'm an airplane made of meat! Whee!" I knew that it was the same thing. I glanced back at my friends for the last time as they watched on with what can only be described as the this-is-the-best-thing-in-my-life-I've-ever-witnessed-and-simultaneously
-I'm-so-glad-that-it's-not-me look on their faces. I stood up and received my karmic punishment for future misgivings that I would impress upon the mentally challenged community.

It was on this day that I learned two things: 1) There is no God and 2) Retarded people smell like a mix between a new He-Man toy and asparagus piss.

Interesting thought of the day:
Mythbusters marathon Sunday is the best day in the history of man. There's nothing like writing two finals papers and watching insect foggers blow up a house filled with homeless people.

Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Time After Time!

The entire month of December, or until I run out of them, I'm going to title all of my posts after Cyndi Lauper songs. I've got a feeling I'll run out of them by the end of this post.

Anyway, this post will be a huge letdown to everybody who actually reads this thing all the time because I'm finally going to tell a story I've been talking about writing for a while, but kept putting off.

First, let me preface this with the information necessary to understand what I'm talking about. This story is about my grandpa and his wife and the present that they have recently bestowed upon me. I call her my fake grandma because my real grandma died when my mom was a kid. I don't call her this to her face because she would probably cry or shoot me with her infamous vaginal torpedoes. So, when I say "Peggy" or "my fake grandma," they're one and the same.

I don't talk to my grandparents much because they live in Montana or Arkansas or Texas or Kansas. They live someplace far away that grandparents live. Well, the other day, Peggy called and talked to me. It was longer than it normally was, which makes it awkward for me because my Pavlov-like, telephone ringing-induced erection wasn't going away in a timely manner. She asked me about what I was doing for school. Well, in order to make me feel like I was six goddamn years old, after I told her how I was just about to graduate from college, she then told me to repeat the same fucking thing I just told her to my grandpa. She actually said, "Oooh, why don't you tell your grandpa what you just told me." Then, I proceeded to tell the same information about my graduating with a degree in film and a minor in creative writing to my grandpa who, I could tell, didn't give a shit and probably wasn't too sure which of his grandsons I was.

Come to find out, I hear from my mom that my grandparents really enjoyed talking to me and that they were going to send me something. This is unheard of from them because they never send anything to us for any occasions, and we (myself and my brothers) don't send them anything because, well, because they don't deserve anything. What do they do? They just adopt a bunch of dogs and Peggy whines a lot about how she can't wait until my Grandpa dies. I swear to god, he's going to murder her with a shovel one of these days. He's probably not too strong, but that woman will give you the strength of a thousand old people after she has talked to you for twenty minutes about how she's not sure if the new dog that she just got has fleas or not because he's "a little scratchy and she can't have fleas in the house because your grandpa is allergic to their bites and that couldn't be good, that'll send him right to the hospital."

The good thing is that, on top of this "mystery gift" I was to receive, my mom told me that they were going to send me something for graduating which, she says translates to money. I'm pretty sure, though, after receiving the gift, that they don't actually have money.

This is what they sent me:

It's a watch. Yes. But, this watch came in that box you see that it's in and this box was wrapped in a paper that I lost and wish I could find. It said something to the effect of, "Congratulations, Reader's Digest subscriber! You've won this free watch because you smell like Pepsodent." Maybe I'm wrong about the end, but it did say something about how it was free and they won it. I'll even let that slide. But, come to find out that they won two of the motherfuckers. They won two shitty-ass watches and decided to pawn one off on me as a "gift." The watch is complete shit, too. I'm pretty sure that the bands are actually composed of five laminated Glad twist ties. But, the worst part is the gold face has a fucking Pegasus on it and it's sitting in a canoe or some shit. It's like somebody bought a clipart CD and just picked some random shit and was like, "Alright! Now that's a watch face, fuckers!" Pegasus in a Canoe, by the way, is the title for the new Harry Potter book.

Granted, perhaps I'm being an asshole for looking a gift Pegasus in the mouth, but fuck if it's not the gayest gift anybody has received since that time a friend of mine sodomized me with a rolled-up calendar of Lorenzo Lamas shirtless.

Although, as I mentioned before, my mom says my grandparents are supposed to be sending me money, I have a sneaking suspicion, from this previous gift, that it's actually going to be a three-year-old copy of the Pennysaver-Kansas Edition, and a five-dollar gift book for McDonalds with four of the dollars already used (I've actually seen somebody receive this as a gift from their parents).

Interesting thought of the day:
Harry Potter and the Pegasus in the Canoe hits store shelves in March of 2005. Be there when Harry begins his downward spiral into the dark underworld of mythical beastiality films. Be there as KY Jelly greases up the horn of a unicorn and the series changes forever!

Sunday, November 28, 2004

The "Too Much Pumpkin Pie" Shits!

That's what I'm sporting right now. I've eaten, over the past two days or so, four-sixths of a pumpkin pie. By myself. Now, I could have reduced that fraction to two-thirds, but then you'd probably think, Damn, man, you eat some big-ass slices. No, I don't. You do, bitch! I've had four slices, each of which was one-sixth of the pie (roughly, I didn't have my T-square, level, and protractor to make sure I was exact). Pumpkin pie is absolutely delicious. I especially like the part in the middle where the candle is.

Coming up is my last regular week of school, then finals week next week and I'm done. Hooray for looking for a job in the entertainment industry. At least it's really easy to get a job there. I mean, I'm sure as soon as I start to look I'll find one. Glad I picked a field that nobody else ever tries to get into--not one of those crowded job fields like Professional Baton Twirler or Pee-Wearer.

I think I'm going to start wearing a full suit of armor wherever I go. I don't have a "thing" that people recognize me by. For instance, there's this albino black guy at my school and if you ask somebody, "Do you know the black albino guy," they'll always say that they do. Or, "What about that girl with the hunchback that she always puts a Santa hat on?" Check. I want to be "That guy who always wears a full suit of armor to class and also, in something completely unrelated, has a huge package." I'm halfway there, I've already got the testicular cancer.

I almost saw National Treasure this week, but I couldn't bring myself to it. My friend and I had nothing to do, so we decided we were going to kill time and go to see a movie. He suggested National Treasure and, at first I said no because it looked absolutely shitty, but then, out of boredom I said that we should go. But, by the time it came around to committing to it, I had to back out of it because I couldn't go see a movie that works on the premise that there's a goddamn treasure map on the back of the Constitution that can only be seen when you look at it with Nightvision goggles or some shit. I just couldn't. That same friend went and saw the movie a few days later and said that he walked out. It was only the second movie he'd ever walked out of in his life, the first being Clifford.

My Jay Leno audition joke of the night:
You hear about this? According to recent tests, George W. Bush is officially overweight. The staff chocks it up to a faulty scale, but wow, even the White House scales are weighted in the President's favor. (Kevin Eubanks plays a shitty guitar riff and the audience commits mass suicide.) Makes you think.

I hope I actually do get hired to write for the Tonight Show. Though I mock it, I'd take that job in a heartbeat (I hope it's not Dick Cheney's heart beating, it could be his last. HAHAHA. God dammit! I'm a shoe-in for that job!).

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Laotian's Eleven (minus five)!

I couldn't really come up with a good title for this, so it's a stretch, bitch, get over it.

Some of you may have heard how some crazy Asian guy (he was from Laos, hence the title) who really loves deer, or just hates Brett Favre, shot and killed six people that were trying to get their animal murder on in Wisconsin. Now he's trying to claim that he was shot at first, oh, and also that he's a 13-year-old black girl from Harlem.

Anyway, I bring this oh-so-hilarious story up because on the radio on the way home there were some guys talking about the shooting. One of the guys on the radio station referred to the shooter as "a jerk." Oh, really? You don't want to get a fine from the FCC there, buddy, you sure you don't want to retract that? Would you go so far as to call him "a knucklehead" or "a real humdinger?" I haven't heard something that understated since George W. Bush, on a speech regarding September Eleventh, said, "Oh, we will find Bin Laden, we're slightly miffed. A little P-O'd."

As everybody who reads this weblog knows, I have a passion for two things in life: grilled-cheese sandwiches and the Virgin Mary. It has been brought to my attention that, finally, these two have come together. Some online casino actually bought a 10-year-old, partly-eaten grilled-cheese sandwich that supposedly has a picture of the Virgin Mary on it, for $28,000. What the fuck? I can buy a 10-year-old, partly-eaten Vietnamese child who will do anything I want on the Black Market for $500. I guarantee you I'd get a lot more use out of Baby Charlie than anybody would get out of that goddamn sandwich. And, you can't fuck a grilled-cheese sandwich...more than once. You especially can't fuck one that supposedly has the Virgin Mary on it. Catholics would get all up in arms saying things like, "He's fucking the Virgin Mary." Then I'd say something classy like, "She ain't a virgin no more." Because that's what I am, class. I'm like Oprah but male, white and sexually attracted to hoagies. Potato, potato. Man, that expression doesn't work in type at all. It just looks like I'm saying potato twice, which I am, but I'm pronouncing them slightly differently. You get it? Don't patronize me. Say so if you don't. Fine. It's like that song, "You say potato, I say potato. You say tomato, I say tomato." That one. You've never heard it? Well, turn off your shitty Limp Bizkit and listen to something else for once.

Favorite new joke of the week:
What's blue and has sex with lots of children?

Me in my lucky blue suit.

Sunday, November 21, 2004

Black People Hate Everybody!

In my last post, I was convinced that black people only hated each other, but it turns out they just hate people in general. I'm guessing that Ron Artest of the Indiana Pacers read what I wrote (who doesn't, really?) and decided to prove me wrong. He showed that not only does he really dislike Ben Wallace, but he hates guys that throw beer at him. Well, at least he thought he hated the guy who threw the beer at him. It turns out that that guy wasn't the one getting punched by good ole Ronnie, he ran off to piss on a child or something. The guy that Ron punched is, coincidentally enough, Detroit's newest lottery winner. I'm just going by what I heard, but whenever I was somewhere with people and the clip of Ron Artest "totally Vibe Awards'ing that guy's ass" came on, everybody around me was saying, "Man, that guy's going to be so rich." What a strange turn of events. On the exact same day that he wins the lottery, he goes to a basketball game to celebrate and gets a face full of knuckle and Cocoa Butter lotion. Jesus is watching over us all.

And, in news that's too awesome to be made-up, a new video game is coming out that puts the player in Lee Harvey Oswald's shoes. As LHO, you get to sit in the Texas Schoolbook Depository and bust a presidential cap all up in John F. Kennedy's fat Irish forehead. Actually, would that cap that Lee Harvey is busting be presidential, or is the adjective given to the aforementioned busted cap based upon who is doing the giving rather than the receiving? But I digress. Now Ted Kennedy, JFK's stay-puft bro-bro, is all upset because this game has been made. It's not like he's re-dying every time. While it is true that "every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings" and "nobody puts Baby in a corner," it is not true that every time a computer-animated JFK is shot in a videogame, his soul is beaten with the flaming whip of Satan.

By the way, Flaming Whip of Satan is what I call my wiener the moment right after I've doused it in 151 and touched it to the candle at the table in Red Lobster on Valentine's Day when my girlfriend told me she didn't like when I had too much to drink in public--and right before the Emergency Room and the four months of the most intimate physical therapy two men should ever have to endure. Yes, two men. You know that skin melds very quickly to the flesh of another man when it is heated to the right temperature, especially very soft, thin tissue like that of, say, the dick or anus. I guess the biggest mistake was pulling down the waiter's pants and sodomizing him while yelling, "You want a tip? Here you go, buddy!" It's strange, though. I think if a drunk guy was trying to sodomize me in public with his flaming cock, I'd be quick enough to react. I guess that, even inebriated, I have the speed of a fucking jungle panther.

Interesting thought of the day:
Babies with cancer are lucky because at least they don't have to go through life worrying about if they'll ever get it.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Black People Hate Each Other!

The other night at the Vibe Awards, some guy reached out and punched Dr. Dre in his smelly face right before he was going to receive a lifetime achievement award. The lifetime achievement award for rappers is living past 40. Thank you very much, I write for Jay Leno. Anyway, then somebody in 50 Cent's posse decided that "ain't no nigga gonna punch Dre in the face for free" and proceeded to stab that guy. Whatever happened to the message we all learned in You Got Served? If you've got a problem with somebody, you don't stick him with a filed down toothbrush, you dance like you've never danced that guy. Stabbings heal, but getting outdanced, that lasts forever.

In "I fucking hate religious-right morons" news, people are mad because on Monday Night Football the other night some woman's naked back was exposed in front of Terrell Owens as part of a promotion for ABC's show Desperate Housewives. People wrote in and are so angry because of this. Seriously. I'll bet if the football player was white, they'd be fine with it all. Instead, since it's a black guy, the entire South actually emailed torches and pitchforks to ABC's corporate offices. I hope that next week Terrell Owens sodomizes Barbara Bush in front of America.

Also, Clinton's Presidential Library opened up today. Sorry, I'm still auditioning for Jay Leno, so you probably don't want to read the next sentence. Clinton's library is the only Presidential Library to carry The Kama Sutra. Well, I just stabbed myself in the throat with a pen.

Star Jones got married over the weekend to some guy who likes money. Well, he either likes money or he really wants to become a member of the Hutt crime family and there's no better way to become a part than to marry the boss. Boba Fett was reported to be a no-show for the wedding. An entry in his weblog from the day before the wedding may lend some help in figuring out why:

Hey guys. Today really sucks. :( I had to go out and track down some guy on Naboo and it was really hard. It was all hot and stuff and I forgot to put on deodorant so I totally didn't want to go near anybody. You guys know how that goes. Anyway, you know that guy I've been telling you about that I had a crush on? Well, it turns out that he's totally going to get married to somebody else tomorrow. He sees how hard I work for him and, remember that night I told you guys about--when our hands accidentally touched--it turns out that that was all in my mind. I mean, I've known him forever and always thought we'd end up together. I don't know what to do. There's no way I can go tomorrow. *sigh* Well, I'm going to go burn some sage and go to sleep. :*(

Interesting thought of the day:
When Bob Barker tells you to have your pet spayed or neutered, he only does that because nothing turns him on more than a dog with his lipstick out.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Duck, Duck, Goose!

I wrote about The Swan when it first came on, but I feel that it is necessary to revisit this awesome show. The show is fantastic because it really makes women feel like they look absolutely shitty all the time. There's nothing better for somebody's self-esteem than to watch somebody else who is average get madeover to look like a glamorous monster. When they show the people at the end of the show and they're all made up, it kind of looks like when an old lady with Alzheimer's gets into the makeup drawer when the orderly that's supposed to be watching her was masturbating in the broom closet humming The Golden Girls theme song.

I was watching this television spectacular tonight when the main plastic surgeon (a guy who looks like he actually sleeps with the sun) said something that made me write it down so I could relay it later on. This is where the real asskicking to the self-esteem comes in. He said, "[We're going to] excavate her beauty and bring it to the surface." Holy shit. There's nothing that makes a woman feel better than when somebody refers to her face like it's Carlsbad Caverns. He may as well have said, "Well, right now she's fugly. What I'm going to do is chip away at this flabby canvas and try to form something that looks less like the back of my ass and more like an Olsen twin with a vaccuum in her snatch."

I still have that story about my Grandparents to tell, it's really nothing, so stop getting excited. I'm serious, that'll get all over your keyboard. Gross.

Bad joke of the day:
What do you call an Italian hooker?

A pasta-tute.

Hell yeah.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Jesus dies again!

In preparation for the Christmas Season, Jesus has died again. Big Baby Jesus, also known as Old Dirty Bastard or "Isn't he that rapping homeless guy from the Mariah Carey video?" died in a rare fencing accident on Saturday. He was just doing what he normally does on the weekends, fencing at his country club, when the tip of one of the rapiers hit his heart on a T-wave killing him almost instantly.

The President of Fox Hills Country Club, 97-year-old James McGreevy, had this to say regarding ODB's death, "Old Dirty was a regular member around the clubhouse. He will be sorely missed at our ice-cream socials, golf tournaments, and cricket games."

After some investigative reporting, and Mr. McGreevy trying to gum his way through my left arm while yelling, "Meatloaf for dinner! Hooray!" I realized that the story he was telling me was somewhat factually inaccurate. So, I shot him in the head and went to google news and read the actual story.

It turns out that ODB collapsed in the recording studio (a place where a lot of rappers go to die--kind of like that farm your parents took your cancer-infested dog to when you were little). I'm not going to presume that perhaps drugs were involved, as ODB--as you can see--is a vision of perfect health. But, in some circles, there are rumors that maybe he died of drinking too many Zimas. I did the math and, in order for alcohol poisoning from Zimas to kill somebody of ODB's stature, he would have to drink 5 a minute for six years straight. It's amazing that nobody caught him drinking, but that's how alcoholics do it--alone and in the dark.

I have my own theory that it was actually a suicide because ODB was grief-stricken over recent events. It's no secret that ODB was a huge Polar Express fan. In fact, he ran the largest Polar Express fan website on the internet. When the news hit him that The Incredibles was going to beat it at the box office this weekend, ODB felt he couldn't go on. Friends and family said things like, "Don't worry, Big Baby Jesus, It will still make its money back with the overseas market." But he just wouldn't listen to them. He was already in a huge depression after seeing that his favorite actress, Lindsay Lohan, "went all slutty once she got her boobs," this just sent him over the edge.

Rest in peace, Big Baby Jesus. In your honor, I would like to propose a new Holy Trinity. No longer will it be the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Henceforth it will be The Brotha, the Sixteen Kids, and the Holy Shit, isn't he that rapping homeless guy from the Mariah Carey video?

Interesting thought of the day:
I didn't get to use the word "monicker" in this entry and I'm too lazy to go back and change it. But it's a damn good word. It's like "conduit."

Friday, November 12, 2004

Sweet Yassy Molassy!

I don't know much about anybody that isn't me or my immediate family. In fact, I don't know much about those people either. I have seen them and I know that they exist, and I'm pretty sure that my brothers' names both start with the letter 'J,' but that's all I've got. And I don't know much...but I know I love you. And that may be...all I need to know. That was my internet Aaron Neville impression but I probably didn't have to tell you that; I'm told it's flawless.

Anyway, what I was getting to in the horrible title that I've written is that Yasser Arafat died. He was some guy who was the head of the Palestinian Liberation Organization. Jewish people hate him more than they hate opening their Hanukkah decoration box and finding a broken Menorah or Hitler. He kind of looks like if a person was an ant. That's 'ant' not 'aunt.' We all know that aunt's can't be people because they're women. What's funny about him dying is that people fucking hate him. People on the late night talk shows make all sorts of jokes about him and the audience yucks it up. Sure, maybe he's authorized the murder of thousands and thousands of people at the hands of terrorists, but he won a Peace Prize, bitch! Have you won a Peace Prize? I didn't think so. He's all peaceful up in the ass of all those damn uppity Israelis. His motto is "Kill 'em with kindness...or a guy with ninety pounds of dynamite strapped to his balls." The ratio of suicide bomber kills to kindness kills is at a surprising 50:50.

I wish, though, that whenever anybody died, no matter if they were a bastard or not, people just mocked the shit out of their life. Like, things would have been a lot better if I would have turned on the end of the Tonight Show waiting for Conan to come on and Jay Leno would have been like:

"Folks, we lost somebody very special the other day, Christopher Reeve. He was a great man, a truly great man--if you like a hundred and fifty pounds of dependency and a permanent indentation on the side of his mouth where the river of drool ate away at his flesh. Fuck that guy! Stay tuned for Conan, he's got Smashmouth!"
That may even actually make me watch Jay Leno's shitty, shitty show.

No real news on the car thing. I went to the school police station Wednesday at their request after I called them. I'm positive that the guy who helped me is the reason that the word "rotund" was invented. There is no other way to describe him. His stature was almost cartoony. He had normal sized legs, but from his waist to his fat head was fucking huge. He was a real cop because he had a gun, but that's why he's taking traffic reports instead of "walking the beat" or whatever cops do. He said there's about as good a chance as him becoming president as them getting the person who hit my car. He was Mexican, too, so now I really know that there's no chance.

I have to tell a story about my grandparents, but I've written too much today, I'll try to do it next time.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you've ever used a handkerchief, you're either really old or you really love old snot.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Pumps and the Bumps!

Yesterday after class, I headed to yonder parking lot where my truck hath taken its stead for the past twenty-four quintets of minutes. As I approached yon carriage, I worried and hoped that mine eyes hath been possessed by the devil. Alas, upon closer inspection and analysis, sadly the only object hindering my vision wast the saline expelling from the ducts of mine eyes. The cause for the sudden sadness twas not because I hath been visited by the Virgin Mary herself. Nay! It was because SOME MOTHERFUCKER HIT MY CAR.

On the rear driver's side by the bumper, there's a good-sized dent, about the size of a human foot or a baby's torso accompanied by a good foot and a half or so of scratches. Of course, no note was left from the person saying that they were sorry that they hit my car and here's the insurance information so I can get it fixed. Of course not, that would all be too easy and too much of the right goddamn thing to do. I spent a good five minutes surveying the situation--checking to see if the car was still around, maybe in some other spot nearby. But I didn't find a thing. So I drove home sporting a fresh new set of battle wounds.

Being an expert at human psychology that I am, though, I knew I'd be able to find the snatchbasket that hit my truck. See, at my school, for some reason, people love to park in the same row all the time. I figured it would only be a matter of time until the bastard parked back in the same row; I just didn't know it would be so soon. Today, on my way to class, I walked along the other side of the row I was parked in, so I could see the fronts of all the guilty goddamn vehicles that park near me. As luck would have it, I found some blue Mitsubishi Diamante with what looked like a fresh scratch on the front passenger side bumper and my truck's color of paint all up in that shit. Also, the color of the car was the same color of paint that raped the side of my truck. The best/worst part about it, though, was that there was a damn rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror. I wasn't sure what to do in this situation, so I just took down the license plate, make and model of the car. A friend said I should have left a note, but I wasn't too sure. If I did leave a note, however, I think now that I'd just leave a note that says "What Would Jesus Do if he hit a parked truck?" and leave my phone number.

Anyway, the question I have is, I was wondering if anybody knows what I should actually do in this situation. I want the shit fixed, and I'm fairly sure that this is the right car. Do I call the police with all the information and let them follow up on it? If so, do I call campus police (I go to a University of California school--so it's a public institution), or the real police? If anybody knows the actual answer, let me know please. I've thought about pouring Jesus crackers (whatever those "Body of Christ" Nilla Wafers are that they give you in Catholic Churches) in the gas tank, or just standing outside the car all day with my wiener on the door handle until the person gets to the car.

I feel like Encyclopedia Brown by solving that mystery.

Jaxun, thanks for the promotion, the English on that second site you posted is fantastic and something I can only aspire to reach some day. You get a B+ and a Perfect Attendance Award.

Little-known fact of the day:
The reason Lincoln said "Four score and seven years ago..." in the Gettysburg Address is because he hates the number 80. Not too many people know that the number 80 date-raped his grandmother.

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Bruise Clues!

You ever have a bruise that you know you shouldn't touch, but you do because it kind of tickles when you do? That's how I feel about my vagina. Seriously, though--because that's how I try to keep this blog--I don't really have any bruises right now because the most active thing I do is poop (but I do take a Poolates class at the gym, so it's not just regular shitting, it's shitting and sweating), but when I do get bruises, I thoroughly enjoy touching them. Some people think that it's masochistic, but I think that it's fun. I especially enjoy touching my bruises when they're on a pretty woman's uterus.

I'm watching Celebrity Poker Showdown as I'm typing this, and I just noticed something. Dave Foley and Phil Gordon, the hosts, have a weird thing that they do. They don't do what commentators of show normally do and look at the camera, the viewing audience, but they kind of stare longingly into one another's eyes as they discuss the poker hand. It's strange, but very romantic.

Back to things I like to touch. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I hate when people touch my belly button. Honestly. Especially when somebody sticks their finger deep within the baby-Jessica-imprisoning well I call my belly button. I can't really describe the incredibly horrible feeling that pervades my body when this happens, but it's best to just say that it makes me feel like I have no parents. Think about what you'd feel like if you had no parents--not what if your parents don't love you, because they don't and you already know how that feels--and that's how I feel if somebody touches my belly button. I was discussing this with somebody the other day, let's call her "somebody," and she asked how I'd feel if somebody touched my belly button, but they were on their way to "other areas." Now, I'm not quite sure if she meant that the person would run by and touch my belly button as they were heading to Reseda to visit Daniel Larusso, but the way she was smiling when she said it, I think that she was implying something sexual. I'd have to say that if this was the case, the amount of time the person would be allowed to touch my belly button would be directly proportional to the amount of time they touched my other outtie. I'd have to say a temporal ratio of, like, 45 to 1 would suffice. That last sentence would sound really awesome and smart if it was about something like science, but it still sounds pretty awesome knowing it's about blowjobs.

Homework of the day:
Your homework, if you should choose to accept it, is to post a link to my weblog on another place where other people can see it (even if it's your message board for hemorrhoid support) and leave this message with it:
Jesus doesn't love you because he's too busy loving this guy.

The easiest way to do this is to copy and paste what I wrote and click the next weblog thing in the upper right-hand corner and leave it there. Also, you can change the message to reflect how you really feel about this website. "I'm sure glad you're way more talented than the cuntbag at ." Whatever works for you. Then, if you want, copy and paste the link of where you left it in the comment section of this post so I can grade your work.

Interesting thought of the day:
Self-promotion is so much easier when other people do it for you.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004


Well, after a night filled with furious masturbation while weeping openly and loudly, I woke up this morning hoping the night before had all been a horrible, horrible dream. I thought that I'd been stirred from this nightmare this morning when I awoke to the sound of what I thought was a door creaking loudly. See, where I live, in a motherfucking city with houses, cars, pollution and shit, sometimes the door of a neighbor can perhaps creak too loudly. Then, after I'd been awake a few minutes, I heard the sound again. Well, I think, that's much too loud to just be a door, what is it? I look out toward my neighbor's house on the left and nobody's home. I go to look out toward the neighbor's house on the right and I see what the sound is. A fucking black rooster was standing on my front porch pecking at the Welcome mat. I live in a goddamn city, there are no fucking chickens, hens, or other livestock within probably at least twenty miles of where I live. Yet, as I looked out toward my front porch, a fucking rooster stared back at me.

I'm convinced that this is a sign of the Apocalypse. See, I figured that this was the same giant black cock that raped the election results last night. Now it was at my house to take what it could get from me. Trust me, this isn't the first time a big black cock has been waiting for me on my doorstep, but this is the first time that I didn't have to pay for it.

This is all a sign of things to come. Now with Bush on board for four more years, the surreal shit's going to start happening to me. Tomorrow morning I'm going to wake up and I'm going to have a fucking pouch like a marsupial. Then, the next day I'll go to walk outside and realize that the giant sandworms are after me. It's like that weird goddamn film, Mulholland Drive, that I've been talking about lately has taken over my fucking life. By the way, I've got more shit about a different pretentious fuckball from that class who decided he wanted to try to prove how awesome he is, but I think I'll save that for tomorrow when I haven't written as much and a fucking rooster doesn't wind up on my front porch.

Does somebody want to explain to me what the rooster on my front porch means? I'm scared and don't think I can go to sleep again. I'm going to head out to my truck in the morning, pull open the door and blood will come pouring out. I'm telling you, this is some fucked up shit going on and I blame it all on Bush. Maybe this was his way of telling me to suck his cock for being such a Hippy? It's kind of like the Godfather, but instead of a horse's head in the bed, it's a rooster on the front porch. I could expect that kind of confusion from Bush.

Interesting thought of the day:
I'm afraid to make something up here because it will probably come true tomorrow morning.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Fuck Florida! Fuck Ohio!

I quit America.

How the hell can so many people be so dumb? I honestly can't fathom what would make somebody vote for Bush. I can't even think of anything to type. For somebody that has completely put the entire country into a shithole to actually get re-elected makes me want to press a hot iron on the taints of those that voted for him.

This is what I get for being so optimistic. That's why I'm such a pessimistic bastard all the time because I hate the feeling of being let down. And this is a bigger letdown than the time I thought that hot girl was flirting with me, only to find out she was dead.

On the brighter side, at least I'm too old to be drafted. Also, since I watched the damn news all day, I found out (was reaffirmed in my belief) that news people can all be idiots, too. Some chick on NBC was talking about the difference in votes in Pennsylvania between John Kerry and George Bush. She referred to it as his "Margarine of victory." This puts lots of fantastic images in my head. So thank you, random black lady in Pennsylvania.

Also, some old guy on CBS was being really racist and it made me laugh. Dan Rather threw out some weird saying that he said "everybody knows." He said that, "If a frog had side pockets, he'd carry a handgun." Apparently this is a huge saying with old people because the racist old man replied, "Yeah. Then he wouldn't be afraid of black snakes." Maybe he meant this in a harmless way, but all old people are racist.

As I'm typing this, John Kerry is saying that there are still votes to count in Ohio, but it's all for nothing. America is full of right-wing idiots who depend on a mythical wizard in the sky to tell them how to vote. I wish that all the states were red not because they voted republican, but because they were all on fire and the streets were flowing with blood. I'm still holding out hope on that one.

Time to go and submit a Constitutional Amendment that separates the East and West coast of the United States into their own country of rational people while we let the middle of the US destroy itself with their gay-hating, stem-cell research-fearing, black people-lynching, less-evolved-brain-having idiots. I think I'd like to call it "The delicious bread around a piece of shit sandwich" or T.D.B.A.A.P.O.S.S. for short. Or, on the other hand, we can just call ourselves The United States of Awesome. I'll be running for King next year on the platform of "Fuck those guys."

Interesting thought of the day:

Monday, November 01, 2004

Election Eve!

Let me start this off by saying that I am such a fucking dork. That's my thesis statement. The following sentences should be support for my thesis statement, and here they are. I'm such a fucking dork because tomorrow I have three classes, a midterm in my first, and I'm not going to go to my other two classes because I want to watch all the news I can about the election. Seriously. I'm sitting here typing this, and I have that weird, excited feeling in my stomach like Santa Claus is about to drop off presents in my house ("Santa Claus" is the nickname for a one-legged, Columbian, male prostitute--you do the rest of the work).

I am positive that John Kerry will win the election tomorrow. I'm more positive than a swab of Magic Johnson's asshole. The only thing that would hinder his winning is if some really corrupt shit went down. I wouldn't put that above G.W.B's administration, but I don't even think that they can stack the votes that far in their favor. I'm normally the most pessimistic asshole you'd ever meet, but, for some reason, I actually have some semblance of faith in the American people. They all can't possibly be that stupid to re-elect Bush. I hope that I'm right about this almost as much as I hoped the Red Sox would lose the World Series. Almost. We have to have our priorities, people.

Another quick update on that idiot from my class. I emailed him to ask him what his problem was, and he sent back a thing about how he has to take everything seriously. I don't know how ethical it would be to post the entire thing, so I won't do that. Yeah, me, a guy who earlier made a remark about getting a swab of Magic Johnson's HIV-infested anal tissue, has a problem with copying and pasting an email from a total douche bag. Well, I wrote a really long email back to him some time over the weekend, and never heard back from him again. I won't bore you with what I wrote but to paraphrase, it went like this, "YOU ARE A DUMMY AND I AM THE SMARTEST MAN IN THE WORLD! THE THREE PEOPLE THAT READ MY WEBLOG TOLD ME SO!" I'm quite the silver-tongued devil. My way with words is comparable to Mike Tyson on GHB.

That's all for now. I'm off to try to sleep so, when I wake up in the morning, Santa will have brought me a new president.

Interesting thought of the day:
You know how you can pinch the skin on your elbow as hard as you can and it never hurts? It doesn't work the same way on your taint.

Sunday, October 31, 2004

If I Could Turn Back Time...

I'm quoting Cher because as I'm writing this, I'm in a sea of time that doesn't exist and, as you know, everybody becomes very gay when this happens. I think, if I wanted to or wasn't lazy, I could go out and rape somebody or something in the 2 o'clock hour before it's 2 o'clock again for good ole Daylight's Savings Time and there would be no repercussions. I heard a rumor or I completely made it up, that in this one hour, a person can do anything they want and the laws of man, god, and physics don't apply to them. Just for craps and hahas I'm going to go out right after I write this, sneak into somebody's house, and empty out my balls on their XBox controllers. While that's not technically breaking the laws of physics, what I didn't mention was that I will totally be levitating the whole time I do this.

So, I saw Saw today. That's a lot of 'S's, motherfuckers! Alliteration all up in this beeotch. The movie was fine. It's definitely something to see around Halloween because it's gory and messed up, but a lot of the writing was so shitty it hurt my feelings. I forgive it, though, because it's always good to see The Dread Pirate Roberts getting some more work. That bastard doesn't get in enough films. But, the worst part about the experience was this balding, redneck whore-woman toward the front of the theatre who wouldn't shut her fucking four good teeth up. I was in the back and I could hear her dumb ass talking. She was doing the stereotypical talking to the screen thing, but she was doing it after every fucking line. "So, how are you doing?" "He's going to say he's fine," she'd say then I could actually hear the smug smile on her liver-spotted face after he'd say that like she's the goddamn Kreskin of movies.

Also, I got carded by the guy at the theater when I bought the movie tickets. I'm 26 goddamn years old and he wanted to see my ID. I do look young, as you can tell by the Mexican wrestling mask, I don't look a day over diez, but I'm still not sure if I should be flattered by it or pull out my cock and slap him in the face with it while yelling, "Does this look like the knob of a young boy to you?" Maybe he had a reason to check my ID, though, I was holding a lollipop, wearing a sailor outfit, and (insert very hilarious remark about fellating a priest and/or Michael Jackson).

Back on the subject of Daylight Savings Time real quick: I don't know if I've written about this before, but it bugs me to no end when, after the time changes, somebody says something like, "Wow, it's eight o'clock--but it's really nine." No, you retard, it's really eight. The time changed, it's not like everybody is just pretending, but you really know the secret. The time changed, bitch. Get used to it.

I will end with an actual joke that I thought was hilarious. I never remember jokes, so hopefully someday when I'm rereading this and remembering how consistently anti-hilarious I've been, I'll see this and finally go through with the suicide.

How many ADD kids does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Wanna go ride bikes?

Friday, October 29, 2004

Hot Shot: Part Douche

First, let me say that I was wrong in my assessment of the Red Sox demise. It turns out that there is no god, or he at least was too busy whipping up a hurricane, volcano, earthquake, or West Nile outbreak that he forgot to screw over the Red Sox again. There is a picture from the celebration that I love. In this picture, Red Sox pitcher Pedro Martinez holds a giant bottle of maple syrup up to the sky in celebration.

Okay, on to the meat of this thing. The douche bag that I've been talking about in the past couple of posts has struck again. See, we have to participate, for my Latin cinema class, in this discussion board about the films we have to watch. As I wrote last time, we had to watch David Lynch's Mulholland Drive. This guy, the fuckbasket who called it a "masterpiece," took exception to what I contributed to the discussion, which is as follows.

I don't think David Lynch even knows what he intended. The film is what happens when poorly written dialogue meets somebody who really really wants to be seen as "so strange he's a genius." Films like this are open to interpretation because--and this is just my opinion--the filmmaker is so pretentious that he thinks if he puts enough random things within it, people will find meaning where they want. It's a lot like all of the Nostradamus predictions--if you keep talking and writing things down cryptically, eventually somebody will read in to what you wrote and take it to mean what they want. It's also, in my opinion, along the same lines of psychics and mediums.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the film on the level that it shows me boobies, and also on the level that it does get so weird because I like weird things (that's why I carry around my I [heart] unicorns Trapper Keeper). But, I refuse to read into it what I can because, if I want to do that, I'll go read some tea leaves or the chocolate milk stain on the seat of my truck.

This is exactly what I wrote, I just copied and pasted it from the message board. Now, Wannabe McGee wrote this in response:
Reading Kurt's input on this film is exactly why I don't want to do this sort of thing.

If (Professor's name deleted to maintain some anonymity) is reading this-- Could I please be released from having to put a second thing in here, I'll do three in any other area you wish!

How much does a zero in this area hurt?

First, for a guy that wants to put across the notion that he's so goddamn smart, his grammar isn't exactly stellar. Secondly, my post was just my opinion, which I stated twice, but it was so against what he believes, because, as I eluded to, he's a pretentious ball of backsweat, that he could no longer continue to even post in the same section that I did. Not even the same thread, but the entire section about Mulholland Drive had suddenly become sullied because I called it out for being wannabe elitist bullshit. I emailed him to see just what exactly about what I wrote made him want to quit life. It's not as much out of whether I give a fuck what he thinks or if I hurt his feelings, I just want to know what did it. I'll be he's got the I [heart] unicorns Trapper Keeper that I talked about. Unicorn-lovers are very sensitive about these things.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you put anything up to a baby's face, it will at least smell it. Just keep this in mind.

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Syphilitic Paper Cuts!

Besides being a totally kick-ass band name, syphilitic paper cuts can be achieved by having sex with this, the world's biggest origami penis. The sad part is that the man acquired the huge, college-ruled cock while attending the castration of a giant, paper child molester in Singapore. The penis fell and crushed his sister and, like the rules of the bouquet at a wedding, whoever catches the cock, gets to keep it--then they will be the next to be castrated. On a side note, the tool used for castration was the world's largest pumpkin carving knife.

I talked in my last post about that huge poser in a couple of my classes. Well, to add more fuel to the fire, we had to watch the film Mulholland Drive. For those that don't know about this film, it's by David Lynch, the guy who wrote and directed Twin Peaks. The movie is this tangled spiral of confusion, misdirection, and purposeful ambiguity. It's incoherent and the dialogue is written like a shitty made-for-TV movie. But, because it's so strange, people like Ass-Hat Johnson think that it's a "masterpiece." That was actually the word he used to describe it. I mean, in a way it's a masterpiece because it has Naomi Watts in two lesbian scenes, but that's not how he meant it. He meant that it was a masterpiece because it was so deep and meaningful. What a goddamn moron. He's the same type of person who says they like Abstract Art. See, nobody really likes Abstract Art, they just say that they do because it makes everybody else look at them and say, "Wow, you understand it? You must be so smart." I want to shit a never-ending stream of oreo cookie-induced diarrhea onto their head and claim it in the name of art. I don't think they'd "get it" then.

Well, I've met my dick and shit joke requirement for the day--time to go.

Interesting thought of the day:
Raw bacon, despite what a hooker might tell you, does not work well as a prophylactic. But it does work well as something to throw instead of rice at a PETA wedding.

Monday, October 25, 2004


Ashlee Simpson was caught trying to be like her older sister on Saturday Night Live (on Saturday of course, you dumb shit). It's known that her voice isn't as good as her sister's so she was caught lip-synching to make up for it. She was also caught stuffing her bra and giving a blowjob to Nick Lachey.

I was looking at the pants I was wearing today and I realized that people call one unit of pants a "pair." I mean, I'm not a fucking robot or dirty, smelly foreigner, so I won't actually call it a unit of pants, but I didn't know another way to say it. English is so fucked up though. Does that mean that pants always come composed of two parts? And, they must be identical, because that's what pairs are. A pair of something means that they're identical. Unless you're wearing fraternal pants, but then nobody actually believes that they're a pair, but instead the mom had them too close together and is embarrased so she tells everybody that they're fraternal and not identical.

Some guy in two of my classes is such a douche bag that I want to shove glass into his Adam's apple, like, really hard. He talks, in one of my classes, about some philosophers that have nothing to do with the class so he looks so fucking important and smart. I'm the only one in the other class where we're actually reading all of the people that he's paraphrasing, so I know what a goddamn poser he is. But, to everybody else, he looks like he's so fucking well-read. He really, really irritates me. I'm thinking about hitting him in the back of the head with the claw part of a rusty hammer, breaking it off, and totally dropkicking him in it once that part's done. Today, Douchebag Jones made it a point to mention to the whole class that he visits Mental Institutions and always talks to homeless people. I think you can see why I want to bury him alive in a pit of AIDS.

Interesting thought of the day:
Stilts were invented by people who were playing the "Hot Lava" game in their house (where all the carpet was Hot Lava) so that they could cheat.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Bedtime Story!

First, I have to talk about the Red Sox again. If you don't like it, you can kiss my Puerto-Rican ass--the one that I have in the fridge. They beat the Yankees which means that this whole thing is going to be even better than I thought. Now, instead of losing to the Yankees, they're going to lose in dramatic fashion in the World Series instead. I can't wait until the Cardinals beat them in game seven by coming back from down three games to zero. I'd love to see the Red Sox win, but I'd love to see them lose in the most heartbreaking way possible more.

Nothing's going on at school right now so I've got no good stories to tell. Instead, I'm going to make up a bedtime story right now and I won't delete anything that I write (unless it's a typo or something--I can't deal with those).

The Bastard Frog

by Shel Silverstein (or me, whatever)

Long ago in a swamp filled with all sorts of swampy creatures, there lived a frog named Herman. Herman wasn't like all the other frogs. His legs were on backward so when he jumped, instead of going forward, he went in reverse.

Well, all the other frogs and even the toads made fun of Herman because of this problem. Herman's parents, however, still loved Herman like he was normal. He wasn't though. His fucking legs were on backward. That's some fucked up shit right there. That's like this guy that I heard about when I was in high school that went to another high school nearby and his legs were on backward, too. He was supposedly on the swim team and he was really good, but I'll bet that's just what people told him so he'd stop feeling so bad about not being able to sit in chairs right.

One day, Herman decided that he had had enough of all the other frogs making fun of him so he was going to do something about it. He never stood up for himself so he didn't know exactly what to do. He talked to his only friends, Eric and Dylan. Eric and Dylan were different, too. Nobody in the school liked them either because they wore funny jackets and always walked around like they were depressed. Eric and Dylan already had a plan to stand up to the mean frogs in the school, so when Herman asked for their help, they were more than happy to help.

The three of them devised a plan that would make everybody stop being mean to them and respect them as the frogs they are.

The next day at school, the plan was in motion. Herman hopped up the school steps backward because of his gimp-ass legs and spotted the biggest bully in the school, Freddy. Freddy always called Herman "Hop-a-wrong Cassidy." Herman didn't know that Freddy was from China and never intended to make fun of him. This didn't matter to Herman because he was about to get back at everybody for how mean they all were. When he would give the signal, Eric and Dylan would hop out from behind the lillypad that drops all the kids off at school and riddle them with water balloons. "This would be the best thing ever," Herman thought. "Everybody knows that frogs HATE water!" When Herman gave the signal--which was yelling, "I fucked an eskimo prostitute"--Eric and Dylan were to come out and hit everybody with water balloons.

"I fucked an eskimo prostitute! I fucked an eskimo prostitute!" The sound rang throughout the swamp. Dylan and Eric jumped out and began the plan. What they didn't tell Herman, though, was that when they said "water balloons" they meant "bullets from AK-47s and other guns that I can't name because I don't know anything about guns except that it would hurt to get shot by them."

When all was said and done, Herman had been shot nine times and lie dead in front of the school. Eleven other students had been shot and killed before Dylan and Eric turned the "water balloons" on themselves. From that day forward, though, nobody ever talked about that guy with the fucked up legs that went to that school. Now whenever they talked about that school, everybody talked about how two frogs, both the sons of an eskimo prostitute, were tired of being made fun of and finally decided to do something about it.

Herman's parents cried for two weeks until they realized that they should, instead, be happy that their freak-of-nature son was dead and they didn't have to act like his weird, backward legs didn't bother them anymore. They went on to have four other children and never told them about their dead older brother. Everybody was happy for the rest of their lives.

The moral of the story is if you have a physical disability and people make fun of you for it, you better not do anything about that will get you killed because your parents hate you anyway.

The End.

Interesting thought of the day:
A surefire way to get sick in this flu season is to fellate a homeless man after eating three bowls of Cookie Crisp (or a box of razor blades, it has the same effect on your mouth).

Monday, October 18, 2004

Los Calcetines Rojos!

The Red Sox won again tonight after the same beast of a man who won the game last night hit in the winning run in the fourteenth inning tonight. I'm starting to rethink my thoughts on god, and now I'm starting to believe that he must exist. I thoroughly enjoy the misery of others and there is nothing on this planet that exists quite like the misery of Red Sox fans. I already mentioned where this was going, and it's looking more and more like it's what's going to happen. The Red Sox will take this series seven games and lose it in some sort of dramatic fashion that can never be topped--until next year when they're even more awesome at losing when it's most important. I can't wait until one of the Red Sox players loses the game by raping the opposing team's pitcher in the middle of the game. Not too many people know that that results in an automatic forfeit; at least it does in Little League Girls Softball games, and you're the umpire.

I was listening to the game on the radio on my way home from school tonight. Oooh, first, let me talk about the goddamn people in my screening tonight. We had to watch some ridiculous-ass film which is always bad enough, but there was some couple who brought a fucking baby with them to the screening. They brought the baby with them to the screening last week as well, and they should have learned then that babies fucking hate the dark or noise or other people or chairs or something because they make so much goddamn noise the whole time. But, again, they decided to punish the other forty people in the screening because they didn't want to use protection. For literally about forty-five minutes the baby was blabbing about whatever babies decide is important enough to yell out loud in a theater-setting. I think that whatever the baby was saying translated to "I'm a fucking baby! Why did you bring me to a theater where I'm supposed to be quiet for an hour and a half? I fucking hate you and, Mom, your vagina is really weird." I swear to my newly-found god, if they bring that baby to the screening again, I'm throwing it off the third floor of the building we're in.

Anyway, I was listening to the Red Sox game on the way home. Because it's on AM, the quality of it is all shitty like the radio's trying to tell me a secret and it's got a lisp. But, because I live in the glorious, wonderful Inland Empire, I can't just have one AM station on a channel at a time. The closer I got to my house, some goddamn Mexican horn music started to make its way into the Red Sox game. Well, at least that's what I assume was happening, unless, by some strange sequence of events, a Mariachi band marched out onto the field during the fourteenth inning. Not a lot of games go into fourteen innings, maybe it's like the second seven-inning stretch, but, to embrace our Mexican friends, we play shitty horn music and serve enchiladas. I really don't know much about baseball. So I stopped by Jack in the Box to get my daily filling of vitamins and minerals, and I'm holding on to what I can hear of the game. But, as I pull under the Jack in the awning, it starts to get more Mexican and less basebally. This is when the shit's going down, too. There were two men on and Ortiz was at the plate. So, I'm turning my radio up so I can hear the game, but that means that tuba player number cuatro is getting louder as well. I pull up to the window to receive my spicy chicken sandwich and I'm blasting horn music. I know the people inside were looking at me wondering where my cowboy hat and I (heart) Edward James Olmos bumper sticker were. There's really no end to that story. So I'll just stop typing it.

Interesting thought of the day:
A fun game to play is to try to put one or more of your pubic hairs in a place that they really shouldn't be. Some places to try this out are: Museums, Dentist's Office, Grandma's dentures, a child's backpack, or my autographed Ralph Macchio karate gi.

Sunday, October 17, 2004

Poor Red Sox!

The Red Sox just won game four of the American League Championship Series to keep them alive in the series. Don't they know that they will never win? It's not that I hate the Red Sox--I actually hate the Yankees--but the Red Sox just can't win. They fall short more often than a group of skydiving midgets. Man, that was a stretch.

Honestly, though, if they would have lost this game, thus losing the series, the Red Sox and their fans wouldn't have the elation of even having a glimmer of hope. But, it is a pretty common thing in the Red Sox lineage to give hope only to snatch it away in the most horrible way. Tomorrow, or whenever they do eventually lose the series, it's not just going to be a loss, something really ugly's going to happen. They'll either pull a Bill Buckner (for those that don't know, he lost the World Series by having the ball roll through his legs in the ninth inning), or something even worse is going to happen, like a damn sniper attack or a polar bear will get let loose in the stadium and murder (coincidentally, also by sniping) all the Red Sox players.

Driving home today, I was going underneath a lot of overpasses (because my Go-Go-Gadget stilts weren't working on my car), and I thought of something that I really, really want to do. Before an overpass comes up on the freeway, there's a sign indicating how much room there is for clearance so trucks have time to get off and go around if they're too tall. Well, I want to close down the freeway one night and raise the level of the freeway by about a foot. It'd be quite an undertaking, but I just really want to see a truck slam the piss out of the overpass. Maybe this is because I'm a horrible human being. I think it's also an indication of what a bad person I am that I wish the back of the truck that hits it would be filled with lots of babies.

Interesting thought of the day:
Drinking and driving is bad, but drinking and peeing is counterproductive.

Friday, October 15, 2004


For some reason Dick Cheney and his wife, Teresa Heinz-Cheney, are mad that John Kerry called their daughter a carpet-muncher. Well, he didn't use those exact words, he said "Could the Vice-President's daughter be any more gay?" It was weird that he turned into Chandler from Friends. He continued, "I mean, seriously. She's gayer than Richard Simmons watching that new show Manhunt on Bravo while simultaneously having an orgy with Siegfried, Roy, and Wayne Brady." Then he nudged Ross and Phoebe seeking approval.

Honestly, though, it doesn't make any sense that they'd be mad unless they secretly (or not so secretly) hate the fact that their daughter enjoys the company of another vagina right next to hers. They said that it "wasn't fair" because he was doing it to turn off voters who may not like gay people. Well, if John Kerry's saying nice things about the Same-Sames (a word my friend brought to me that I'm positive will catch on like wildfire), who's to think that they're then, in turn, going to vote for him instead just because his daughters aren't gay? I mean, even if people did switch from Bush to Kerry for that reason, there are probably even more people that will switch their vote the other way just for a hope that, if times get rough, Cheney will force his daughter to release her own Girls Gone Wild 'White House' Edition. So it's all fair.

Interesting thought of the day:
A fat person walking toward you is God's way of testing your self-control.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Eye Eye, Captain!

Something strange happened today at school, or as I call it, school. I was sitting in the library being a complete fucking dork when this girl (not attractive, just a girl) went to sit across from me. As is my habit, I go to look up at what's sitting down across from me and her eyes met mine. Now, normally when this happens, the person who was caught looking, her, would stop staring--but she didn't. She defied the laws of personal etiquette. I ended up having to look away while the psycho girl sitting down across from me kept looking. I don't think that she was checking me out; I'm not saying that. I just think that she has no concept that other people can see her looking at them. I think she must believe that she's wearing some sunglasses or that she's invisible (I know I do sometimes--I'm still not allowed in the boys bathrooms at the Elementary School across the street), because she defied all the rules of eye contact.

I slept for twelve and a half hours last night because I'm sick. That's disgusting. I don't think a person should be allowed to sleep more than they're awake in a day without being declared legally dead or a kitten.

The final presidential debate is tomorrow night. Let's hope that this time Bush decides not to wear a wire. Some people think that he was getting prompted from Carl Rove or somebody much smarter than he, but I don't think he's bright enough to do something like that. I think that he just feels more comfortable when he can listen to his Raffi music from his iPod during the debate. If you watch carefully, you can see bush singing his ABC's, giggling, and drooling. Never mind. I think that would account for almost all his public appearances. After Bush loses the debate tomorrow night, I'll bet that the "terror alert" level gets raised to puce, mauve, or manila--whatever means that it's higher than before.

By the way, the greatest new show on television is Lost, it's on tomorrow (Wednesday) night on ABC right after the debate. You should watch it if you enjoy things that are enjoyable.

Interesting thought of the day:
The taste of mucous in one's throat never gets old. It's like the Everlasting Gobstopper Lozenge of Phlegm.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

I'm a Horrible Bastard!

Christopher Reeve, star of such films as Village of the Damned and Anna Karenina, was killed today when he was finally paralyzed to death.

He died while in a coma from a heart attack that he had on the previous day. Man, comas are the new plane crash lately--they're kicking everybody's ass. First Barry White, Rodney Dangerfield, now Christopher Reeve. But, I think it was the heart attack that really did it. It's his own fault, too. He kept telling himself he would start running come January 1. Oh sweet irony.

His wife said in a statement, "I also want to thank his personal staff of nurses and aides, as well as the millions of fans from around the world who have supported and loved my husband over the years." This was followed by, "Whew! Who wants to go dancing? Jesus!" She then went running on uneven ground for two hours.

As everybody knows, Christopher Reeve was paralyzed in 1995 when he, in a drunken stupor, longing for his Superman days, tried to fly off the roof of his house. Once he realized he couldn't move anymore, he started a foundation that would research how to make really fast wheelchairs. He had hoped to get a wheelchair that could go fast enough so that he could reverse the earth's rotation so he could go back in time. Nobody had the heart to tell him that that only works in his movies so the charities persisted until today when all of the actors hired to pose as doctors can finally return to their normal lives.

On a serious note, I joke about it, but I really do feel bad that he died. Now who are people going to make fun of when they really want to stick it to those goddamn paraplegics? There's no paraplegic icon quite like ole Chris Reeve.

Also, in Friday night's debate, John Kerry mentioned how he was good friends with Christopher Reeve when they were discussing stem-cell research. You know that, come Wednesday's final debate, George W. Bush will use this against him.

"America, John Kerry says that he was good friends with Christopher Reeve, and now he is dead. All he had to do was mention his name and he died. Just by mentioning his name. Do you want him saying your name? So now I'm asking you, America, who would you rather have as your commander-in-chief? Me? Or old Deathbags Malone over there? I think you know the smart choice. Oh yeah. September Eleventh."

Friday morning at like 3:30 I woke up and I had three spider bites on my shoulder, two right near my left eyeball, and one on my ear. I'm fucking delicious. I'm not one of those people who are afraid of spiders, but if something bites the hell out of me while I'm asleep, I'm definitely not going to go back to sleep very soon. If a stillborn baby was in a room with me and I fell asleep only to wake up with fucking bite marks all over my body, I guarantee you I won't sleep in that room again until I'm positive that that bitey stillborn wasn't in there anymore. So, at 3:30 in the morning I took a shower, vacuumed the hell out of my room, and sprayed bug spray to the point of toxic chemical-induced dizziness. Goddamn spiders.

Interesting thought of the day:
Making fun of dead and/or paralyzed people really does make you feel better--no matter what people with "taste" actually say about it.