Saturday, July 31, 2004

Let's Get Ready to Put Some Boxing Gloves on Monkeys and Watch Them Punch Each Other!

That's a little wordy, but I'm sure that's close to the translation of what Michael Buffer says before these fights where orangutangs are forced to kickbox one another. That's right, I said kickbox. Now, the history of animal fighting is a long and hilarious road, but normally these are just referred to as "fights" not kickboxing. Cock fights. Dog fights. And the less popular and much slower paced Three-toed sloth fights. But calling these orangutang fights "kickboxing" implies that these monkeys (I know they're not monkeys, because orangutangs and monkeys are different species, but you know what? I don't care because it's all the same from behind if you know what I'm saying.) actually have some semblance of training. I imagine that the monkey dojo where they learn this is a lot like the Cobra Kai dojo in the karate kid.

Sensei: Pain does not exist in this dojo, does it?

Orangutangs in unison: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH EEEEEEEE!

Sensei: Fear does not exist in this dojo, does it?

The orangutangs fondle one another's monkey cocks.

Then the blonde guy from Just One of the Guys pouts and feathers his hair a lot.


The promoters of the show say that the fights are coreographed and none of the monkeys get hurt, but I wouldn't step into the ring against an orangutang with boxing gloves on. That thing doesn't know the "not-in-the-face-or-in-the-balls" rule. I have no qualms about kicking a monkey in the balls, but I don't think he'd quite go down like a man would. I think kicking a monkey in the balls would somehow draw a lot more anger from that monkey than sending them down in a heap like what happens to a man or a small child who won't stop pointing at you and laughing at your head that's "as big as me, mommy." It's genetics, fucker.

So, stop the monkeys from fighting one another when they could be doing something much more productive like picking shit from each other's ass hair and shoving their erections through the chain-link fence at the zoo.

In other news, I got a call from some woman today. That's all. A woman called me. I actually came in my pants as soon as I heard that a woman was on the other end of the line. And it was free this time!

The good thing about having an uncommon or slightly difficult to pronounce last name is that you know right away when the person who's calling you is somebody who wants some money from you. So, she calls and mispronounces my last name, so I know she's going to want something, but I didn't know what fun would come from it. She proceeds to tell me that she works with a company called ARC. Whenever I hear an abbreviation like this, I always like to think of what it could stand for. Before she has a chance to tell me what it stands for, she explains that she's from a charity that's collecting for helping mentally handicapped children. Now, in the past few months, I've written a lot about retarded people (only because I don't know of many/any retarded animals or inanimate objects like a retarded sandwich or belt) so I'm convinced now that if I ever have children that they will be the most retarded children ever born. This, in a way, would make me happy because I always strive to be the best in everything I do and to have the MOST retarded children alive would make me feel like a winner. Anyway, after explaining that the organization has been around for 51 years, I realize that ARC has to stand for something like "Aiding Retarded Children" or "Aid for Retarded Children" or "Apples Rain Clock." The last one wouldn't make much sense so I'm guessing it's one of the first two.

The idea that this organization would have the word "Retarded" in their title blows my mind. Sure, maybe it's in keeping with the tradition of the organization, but it seems strange that they wouldn't rename themselves since everybody is so worried about being politically correct these days. It's kind of like if I decided to own myself a slave or two and when people asked me about it I just told them that I was "keeping it real" or "trying to bring back traditional American values." Trust me, I've tried this and it does not work. There are some things that people need to change and this organization's name is one of those things. Also, the organization (holy crap I'm using the word organization a lot) that is the most guilty of having a bad abbreviation is the NAACP. This is a group that's known for fighting for the rights of black folks throughout the country or world (I don't know where they work; I just know that their college basketball tournament is awesome) and they refer to themselves as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Really, Jesse Jackson? I guarantee you if I walked up to Jesse Jackson and said, "You colored people sure do have weird hair and are afraid of the water," he'd murder me into a million pieces. Only rednecks and aliens call black people colored people. I'm assuming aliens would call them colored people, I have no actual experience, but from what I've heard of aliens, they're very literal.

I saw The Village tonight, but I've been writing this thing for 45 minutes now and I don't want to get into it. I'll write about that and The Bourne Supremacy tomorrow.

Interesting thought of the day:
The reason chlamydia is called "the clap" is because an early strain of the virus caused the genitals to emit a noise very similar to a full orchestra performing Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. This would often induce applause from passers-by.

Comment away. I want to hear from you bastards who haven't posted yet, too. I know you're out there. This site's growing like the cist on the tip of my urethra that's threatening to push my urine flow back inside myself; so let's hear from you guys. Or, if you've decided you've read enough and you'd like to hire me to do something for you (hopefully it's writing, but full release massage is negotiable) you can email me.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

The Adventures of Book-Towel!

My copy of The Da Vinci Code has been passed around from person to person over the last year or so--since I first bought it. It has been read by a lot of people, which is weird because there's something so intimate about letting somebody borrow a book that's not there with like, a DVD, or a rubber vagina. It has been from hill to dale and back again, but, alas, I've learned of its untimely demise. While it has probably traveled over hundreds of miles and been in dozens of people's hands, it left this world in that very place it loved the most: the bathroom.

The strangest thing about letting somebody borrow a book is that you know that they're going to take that to the bathroom with them. There's nothing else that's like this; especially because that book is going to be touched so soon after the person wipes their ass, masturbates, or washes the blood of a teenage runaway from their hands. If I wanted to borrow something from somebody, like an umbrella, and I said, "Thanks, I'm going to go shit now and wipe my hands all over it," I'd never be allowed to borrow something from that person again. But with books, this is understood and never discussed. So, in a way, I'm glad that it got ruined.

My friend, who shall only be referred to as "Ryan," borrowed this book from me. Now, Ryan's not really known for his library of books, so I knew it would be a while to get the book back. I had gone to his house on a couple of occasions and seen the book sitting dangerously close to the toilet with the spine on the floor and the pages kind of fanning toward the ceiling. This put the edges of the pages rife for gathering splashback from the urine that would be slamming against the porcelain. I've heard Ryan pee before and he pees like he's trying to put a hole in the toilet or win that game at the fair where you shoot the watergun into the clown's mouth, so I knew that the book was in the process of getting ruined.

Basically, it was ruined when he tried to take it into the shower with him. I guess their relationship had moved from just the occasional golden shower to the actual shower. He says it was on the floor of his bathroom near the shower and the water spilled over on it, but I know the truth. He was liking the book so much, that he decided to take it to the next level and have sex with it in the shower. I did the exact same thing with my favorite book; I've ruined nine bibles this way.

I respond to reader comments:
Our good friend Jimbo the Angry Clown writes:

I just created a link and posted it on WinMx. I labeled it "Midget Porn" though. I figure this will provide you with much more interesting reader responses for you to comment on.
I'm looking forward to the influx of angry Midget Porn connoisseurs that this will bring to the site. That's the corner of the Internet market that I've been trying to reach out to, but wasn't quite sure how. And you, much like tiny midget penises in the films they're wanting to watch, have filled that small hole.

Thanks, Jimbo, Flesh, and Mellody. Flesh, it looks like your way worked the best as the woman who you donkey punched while screaming my website showed up and stayed long enough to comment. I guess there's not much else to do but surf the Internet while you're waiting for your asshole to close up enough so that when you stand up shit doesn't just fall right out.

Comment below more stories about how you're getting the word of my site out (breaking the law is O.K.--vandalism a plus) or about whatever else you want. Or, as always, you can email me.

Hey, Ass!

For the second day in a row, I'm going to write about things that the Japanese are doing because they're exciting, very far away, and talk in pictures.

This article details how the Japanese have widened the base of names that children in Japan can be called. Now, this is why I love how progressive America is because for years I've called small children "prostitutes" and "buttocks" not knowing that somewhere in the world there was a place where people weren't allowed to call children such things. How else would I order my six-year-old callboys? God bless the USA.

As a result, the justice ministry proposed an additional 578 characters for names, but included dozens that most parents might view as poor taste, such as "Piles" and "Vagina".
I can understand the disapproval of the name Vagina. Not only does it denote the woman's area of baby dumpage, but the Japanese symbol for Vagina is something like this: {|}. But Piles? I guess that could mean like Piles of Shit, but it's plural. Who would name their kid a plural noun? "Bandaids, stop pinching your sister, Lamps."
But this week, the ministry said public pressure had forced it to withdraw nine of the most controversial characters, including "Rape", "Excrement" and "Cancer".
Who would name their kid Cancer anyway? There are some names that will automatically decide that person's fate for the rest of their life--this is one them. Like Jeeves, Bambi, or Jesus, Cancer would come with a certain expectation for that person's life to come. In fact, I think if I had a kid named Cancer, I'd be kind of happy if he died in, like, a gang fight, from AIDS, or from a heart attack just to prove people wrong. In the last sentence, when I juxtaposed "gang fight" and "from AIDS" I don't mean that he'd die in the middle of a gang fight as a result of his AIDS, I meant those as two separate situations. That would be a weird gang fight. Gunshots ringing. Screams. And one lone man, my son, Cancer, yells out, "Ouch! My T-Cells are too low" and collapses to the floor--dead.

I've written a small diddy sung to the tune of "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music, about Japan's recent decision to ban these names.
Cancer and Ra-ape
Excrement too
One means forcing sex
One's fatal, one's poo.

Nobody invites my son
Piles to play games.
I wonder why Vagina
hates her name(s).

Okay, so I'm not good at that, but I started to sing it out of nowhere so I had to write it to get it out of my head.

I respond to reader comments:

Anonymous writes:
Rather than threaten to kill puppies if no comments are posted, have you considered killing horses instead?

That way you either get comments or the raw materials for icecream! Its a win-win situation.
Well, Alcoholics, if I can call you by your first name, while this is a good idea if you're made out of money (or horses), puppies are so much cheaper in comparison to horses that I've been using them instead. Besides, as a tribute to the Japanese, I'm going to make my own puppy ice-cream called "Cold Nose Surprise." It'll be released around Christmas through Ben & Jerry's.

That's all for today, kids. I received a lot of comments last entry, so thanks. But now, it's like Fight Club up in this bitch and you all need to bring some friends to this website. You can't tell them why, but you do get to punch them right in their stupid face after you tell them to come here. I do this because they'll remember the website if they get punched in the face right when you tell them about it.

"The Toon dot Blogspot dot Com!" Wham! Right in their smelly head.

They'll relay the story to their friends about how their best friend just yelled, "The Toon dot Blogspot dot Com," punched them in the face, and ran out of the room screaming about how there are no retarded ghosts.

So comment me your stories about how you told/will tell people about this site (Mo, thanks for the link on your site--I checked it out. A lot better layout than I've got here). Or email me.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Beating a dead horse, freezing it, and making it a delicious treat!

Since, once again, life is boring and nothing is going on, I'm going to pull from the headlines around the world and comment on them.

In Japan, an exciting thing has happened--a revolution in confectionary delights! Japan, known for harnessing the power of the Playstation, tentacle porn, and karaoke, has developed a delicious new flavor of ice-cream that is sure to sweep the nation.

Japanese ice-cream lovers have swapped traditional flavours such as raspberry ripple for something a little more exotic - horse-flesh.

This is good news for all of the dinosaurs in the world. I know that dinosaurs and horses never coexisted, but I assume if dinosaurs and horses did ever live together, there would have been a lot of horses being eaten by them. Unless dinosaurs were smarter than I'm giving them credit for and they would ride the horses.
The new flavours are being promoted by the Japan Ice-Cream Association which has set up a summer trade fair.
There's a Japan Ice-Cream Association. There are people that exist in Japan whose job it is to decide the fate of the country's ice-cream supply. I guarantee you that they make like a million Japanese moneys a year. I work harder than they do and I don't make nearly as much Japanese moneys.

Here's the part of the article where I make wonderful puns about the ice-cream flavor.
  • This ice-cream sure would be good if you're feeling a little hoarse! (read it like "horse" and it is hilarious)
  • And that's all I have.
Judging by the lack of comments to my article about retarded ghosts, I can only come to a couple of different conclusions.
  1. The only people that read my blog are retarded and, thus, offended by what I wrote.
  2. Everybody who normally reads my blog went on a trip to Peru to buy a kidney on the black market and they'd rather not talk about it right now. (This one is most likely)
  3. You've all stopped reading because I've fallen in love with making lists on this thing.
I'm really tired and I don't think this article had as much punch as it normally does. I'd say the amount of punch in this article is roughly equivalent to the amount of punch a man would probably give to his wife's stomach upon finding out she's pregnant. You know--just enough to get the job done, but not enough to kill you.

Interesting thought of the day:
The expression, "Everytime a bell rings an angel gets its wings" from the film It's a Wonderful Life was originally written as "Everytime a bell rings an angel gets its wings or a woman decides to try anal for the first time." This was scrapped at the last minute when the director, Frank Capra, decided to ditch the sexually-explicit ending in favor of one that would get a better rating. Jimmy Stewart later added this line in to the film Harvey.

No comments last time so a puppy has died a horrible death. It actually wasn't that horrible, I let him think he was going outside, but instead I threw him in the oven. So, please, comment below about whatever and I'll try to incorporate it into a future entry. Or you can always email me.

Sunday, July 25, 2004

Patrick Swayze is a Liar!

While I was doing my daily three-hour meditation today, my mind wandered into the idea of whether or not ghosts actually exist. After an intense three hours, I've decided, and will convince you if you do believe in ghosts, that they do not exist.

There are tons of stories about ghosts. "Ghosts raped me in my sleep." "Ghosts moved around my picture frames and told me to pour gallons of milk all over old people." "Ghosts murdered my wife and her friend out front of my house and threw blood all over my white Ford Bronco." Out of all the stories you've heard of ghosts, you've never heard about retarded ghosts. You never hear about somebody who had an encounter with a ghost that went like this:

"Boooooo! HAHAHAHAHAHA! My pants make chocolate!" The ghost scurries away bumping into walls and giggling.

There are no retarded ghosts! This, in effect, proves that ghosts do not exist. I do, however, have a couple of ways that this could be proved false.

  • If I learn that retarded people are immortal.
  • If I see a retarded person die and he leaves no body, but simply fades away like a Jedi.
  • If somebody can convince me that retarded people are incapable of being ghosts because they are, in fact, not people, but pixies.
These are the only things that would convince me otherwise. Until then, I will continue to believe that either the mentally handicapped are a soulless people, or ghosts don't exist. I do think that it would be great if all retards were immortal because I can just imagine a Highlander-esque kind of battle involving lots of drooling and giant-headedness.

"There can be only one! I bought a pirate! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Interesting thought of the day:
The first raffle was held in 33 A.D. The first prize given out was a $10 Gift Certificate to the Olive Garden. The grand prize? A box of Jesus.

Comment below and convince me that either there are retarded ghosts, or other reasons that it would be acceptable to believe that retarded people can't be ghosts. Or you can email me.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Fuck the troops!

All too often, you hear people on TV or, if you know and interact with people in your normal, daily life, they say things about the war in Iraq and how they are either for or against it. Well, whether Republican or Democrat or some other form of political affiliation (Wigs anyone?), they always have one thing in common. The Republican/Conservative will say something like, "It is our duty to be in Iraq. I support the war and I support our troops." The Democrat/Liberal says something like, "I am completely against the war, but I support our troops." I, for one, can't stand the bipartisanship concerning this aspect of the war and intend to do something about it. That is why I have decided that I do not support the troops. Oh, I said it. I fully support the war, but the troops don't have my intangible, unmeaning support. I would prefer for the war to be fought by robots like in that kick-ass Will Smith movie (The Legend of Baggar Vance). They're all just over there for a vacation if you really think about it. You know, it's all warm and tropical-like. Then, when they come back, people applaud them and thank them for what they've done? I want somebody to applaud me and then send me to college for free after going on vacation for a few years. "Hey, guys, I'm going to go to Florida when I turn eighteen. I'll be over there drinking, partying, and having lots of sex with many vaginas (or, for the females in the armed forces--many vaginas), and when I come back I'll be twenty-one, in the best shape of my life, tan as all hell, and you'll constantly praise me for how great I was. Doesn't anybody else see something wrong with this? I mean, all too often the troops are seen as "heroes" or as having "done something for their country" when all they've really done is get to blow a bunch of stuff up.

I'm going to make up some bumper stickers that say, "I support the war--but fuck the troops." So, if you want to buy some, check back here; I'll have that set up soon.

Being in the Armed Forces is easy, but being a college student who actually has to pay for his own schooling so I can sit there in an air-conditioned building thousands of miles away from ever being shot at, now that's difficult. I'd like to see them try.

Oh yeah! They also get all sorts of awesome free entertainment. Conan O'Brien went over there and entertained the troops. I heard somebody reanimated Bob Hope's body and had him put on a show for them (dead puppets? fucking awesome!). Who puts on a show for me? I mean, sometimes, when I masturbate I pretend that my hand is a tornado and my wiener is Helen Hunt so it's like the mini stage version of Twister, but that's as far as it gets really. One of my balls is Bill Paxton, one of my balls is Cary Elwes, and one of my balls is the cow. That's right. Three balls. Jealous?

I respond to reader comments:
This is a new section of the blog that will hopefully be used more often because it makes writing this thing a whole lot easier.

This one comes from Jimbo the Angry Clown:
Hi Toon! I saw this pictuire and knew that you would enjoy it much more than anyone else I know.

Now, first of all, we see that he calls the item he linked to a "pictuire." Some of you may think that this is a misspelling, but I happen to know Jim in real life and know that he is, in fact, severely retarded. It's pretty messed up of you to point out his misspellings. It's okay, Jim, you still get two Fruit Roll-Ups for lunch.

Secondly, as you can tell, the picture has been filed at that website under the humor folder so it's meant as a joke. However, I happen to know that it is 100% true that every time a person masturbates God kills a kitten. I'll even quote the bible:

He who doth covet thyself will have the blood of a feline on his hands. And, remember, this is me, God saying this, so I don't mean that in some sick way as a sexual lubricant. I mean that I will fucking kill a kitten. I won't just snap my fingers and kill it, either, even though I could. No. I will put on my kitten-smashing boots and jump into a laundry basket filled with kittens. Also, I weigh a good 200 tons, so that's some fucking dead kitten. So don't touch yourself; I fucking mean it.
--Shaquille 1:87
It's weird how he starts off all authorial and old-schooly, but then he drops some F-bombs. At least he knows how to properly use a semicolon.

Thanks for the contributions. I'll be using you all in the future to make my life easier.

Comment below and be made fun of until you cry yourself to sleep like the crybaby you are or email me.

Crap in the Cup

Just a couple of minutes ago, I was drinking a big old glass of hearty American milk. You know it's American milk and not German because it knows it's white and good, but it doesn't go bragging about it or killing Jewish people. Anyway, as I was drinking it out of my blue tupperware cup, I got near the bottom and found that there was something in the bottom of the cup. It was some mucuous-like substance that was nestled in the bottom corner of that cup. I can't tell whether it was already white before I began drinking from the glass or if it turned white by growing up in Montana.

Many things go through one's mind when this happens.

First, I thought to myself, Did I check the bottom of the glass? I always check the bottom of the glass. Then, convincing myself that what I just imbibed was not completey disgusting, I think to myself, Well, the milk didn't taste any different so it can't be that bad. Next I start to wonder if the thing that was stuck to the bottom of the cup actually came from the milk itself or, somehow it came from me. Finally, realizing it's useless and that there's nothing I can do about it, I decide to cut open my chest and pinch off my esophagus before the milk can make its way into my stomach. See, because there are times when one has to realize that there's ALWAYS something that they can do about it.

I write this sitting in my hospital bed on suicide watch because the paramedics and police don't quite seem to understand what I'm talking about. THERE WAS SOMETHING GROSS INSIDE MY GLASS OF MILK! How hard is that to understand?

Interesting thought of the day:
The xylophone is the musical instrument that is attributed to garnering the least amount of vagina. The most? Surprisingly (or not for those of you who play it), the sitar.

Comment below (you can comment anonymously if you like) and Jesus will love you, or you can email me and Jesus will kind of think that you're cool for a few minutes.

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Iran, you smug motherfucker!

This gets political, so, some of you (Ryan) may not want to read this one.

Well, looks like Bush wants to move on from the overwhelming success he's had thus far in Iraq and throw more dead teenagers at Iran. He'll really show them, just like he did to Iraq. I mean, the proof's in the pudding, Iran may have, accidentally, at one point, let some terrorists pass through their country before September 11.

What a bunch of dirty motherfuckers. You're going to feel the heat of an angry president with no sort of reasoning or access to the more complex, "human," thought processes. Having George W. Bush as president is like leaving a monkey in a room with a box of ninja stars and forty live chickens and expecting to open that door in a week and find everything in the room the way you left it. Then, when somebody asks the monkey why he did what he did, he poops in his hand and throws it at them.

I heard the real reason Bush is going to send the troops into Iran is so he can complete the "totally kick-ass" new rollercoaster that he's going to have built going from Afghanistan all the way to Iraq and, since Iran's in the middle, that's just as collateral damage. That W, he sure does love his coasters.

I just saw a commercial for Spider-Man 2, which I saw a while ago, but Doctor Octopus's robotic arms just reminded me of something. They look like metal versions of those paper things that girls would make in elementary school. You know, those things that would have numbers on the four panels, they'd tell you to pick a number, they'd swish it around, then pick a color, they swish it more according to the letters in the color you pick, then, finally, pick a panel and then they'd lift the tab to reveal to you something insanely interesting like, "You have cooties" or, as my mom called it, "Feline AIDS." The first documented case in humans, thank you very much. I liked Spider-Man 2, but it would have been cooler if that's what Doctor Octopus was chasing everybody around for--just to play his game with him. "Where's Spider-Man? He picked a number, but then he left, he has to PICK A COLOR!"

Interesting thought of the day:
Hammers were originally named such because they were made from pigs.

The naked massage sweepstakes is over with the winners being nobody (or everybody if you've seen me naked). The new contest will begin with this post. Those who comment may be entered in a contest to receive an original haiku on the topic of their choice as long as I receive 3 or more original comments per entry. This doesn't mean that the entries themselves have to be original, as I doubt my readers are capable of much more than repeating some mid-80's catch phrase like, "Cousin Larry, let's do the dance of joy!" What I do want are comments from 3 different people. Or, if you don't like clicking anything online that says submit because "you're not a pussy," you can email me.

Sunday, July 18, 2004

Old Women and Gaping Crevices

I don't know if you've seen this commercial, but you have to look out for it because it's by far the greatest commercial that's on the air right now. It's a lot like the old days of the "I've fallen and I can't get up" lady, but better. The commercial I'm talking about is for a wheelchair/chair for really lazy people called the "Hoveround." It's basically like those things you see that they have at the grocery store, I can't remember what they're called, that are for old people to sit in and roll around in while they shop and smell weird. They advertise this thing as like the wheelchair for people who want to go where anybody can walk. It's good in theory, but they take it too far. The commercial ends with the announcer saying something like, "You can take it to the park (picture of somebody in the chair in the park), the grocery store (shot in grocery store), or even the Grand Canyon." Then there's a shot of two old women whose wheelchair's have obviously been turned off, looking around while they're literally about two feet from the edge of the cliff. Apparently the Grand Canyon is a huge tourist spot for people who can't walk anymore and this company sacrificed the lives of two old women (who, let's face it, probably died soon after the commercial was filmed) in order to perhaps get the elderly extreme sports fanatics who can't walk. That's a big sacrifice for such a niche market.

I saw I, Robot today. Possible Spoilers follow (but, honestly, I'm saving you the money). I didn't want to see this movie because it has Will Smith saying great lines like "You so need to die." Yes, he actually says that toward the end of the movie. Will Smith, in the year 2035, becomes Buffy the Vampire Slayer while killing a robot. I think that sentence I just wrote is the first and last time that combination of words will ever be used in the English language. There was also a shot at the end of the movie where, after the world has been saved from the evil robots (the ones whose chest was glowing red; for those who don't know, in Symbolism 101, red means bad), for no reason whatsoever, the goddamn Blue Angels fly overhead and break off into different directions. Then the movie ends. That's how it ends, I swear. The Blue Angels, who played no part in anything in the film at all, make a cameo appearance 31 years in the future to cap off a delightfully ridiculous film. They could have had a ghost come out and shit on a painting of Munch's "The Scream" and it would have been just as relevant to the movie. The only redeeming part of the film is Shia LaBeouf. Hopefully he goes on to movies that are actually good and not god awful like Charlie's Angels 2: Full Throttle, I, Robot, and The Battle of Shaker Heights. Anyway, one more downfall of the movie is that the director, Alex Proyas, who actually did a good job with Dark City and The Crow, apparently thinks the audience is full of complete idiots (he may be on to something here, though. Anybody who willingly goes to see a Will Smith movie expecting it to be Shakespeare has to have something wrong with him). The plot points and foreshadowing are hit harder than my future wife will be after I've got a six pack in me. He goes so far as to replay the key phrases over and over again. It's only an hour and forty minutes; I'm sure people will remember something that happened twenty minutes earlier in the film if it's only mentioned once. In closing, I give I, Robot six. I'm not sure what unit of measurement I'm using or out of how many units that six is, but, I think it's clear how I feel about the film, you can sculpt your own ratings system around that number. In fact, go ahead and comment it below. Or, if you disagree and you think I, Robot wasn't hideous, let me know.

Interesting thought of the day:
That famous woodchuck whose chucking ability has been pondered for centuries actually couldn't chuck wood at all. He had soft teeth and stuck to the much less dramatic and iambic pentameter breaking chucking of mashed potatoes.

Comment below like you've been so good at lately (not good enough for naked backrubs, though) or email me.

Thursday, July 15, 2004

Upgrades to This Shit!

I came here to type to my increasingly large audience about something inconsequential and then I realized that they gave me more tools to play with on this thing. So, I'm happy as a pedophile who gets a job as a Middle School P.E. teacher.

I think I eat hot dogs too much. I mean, it's the only thing that I use ketchup on in my house and I've gone through a bottle of ketchup in about two months; this is by myself. It's kind of disgusting to think about the fact that I've consumed enough ketchup in two months to fill two soda cans. I actually walked out into the kitchen just now to check the amount of ounces on that so I could get it right. You all wouldn't know if I'm lying about it, but I'd know and I can't have that. It's even more disgusting, though, to think about how those two soda cans of ketchup pale in comparison to the amount of processed animal leftovers that I've taken in. I love using odd units of measurement for comparison, so I'm going to venture a guess that I've eaten, in the past two months, two average, healthy, newborn babies worth of hot dog meat. That's about fifteen pounds of beef or pork or llama (that's the english word for "almost like a camel", not the spanish translation for "s/he calls"). This, I feel, is a lowball estimate. If I had never pooped in the past two months, that's another fifteen pounds I could have gained. Also, I could have formed two meat-carved babies that I could have left in baby carriages in Central Park on a hot day in summer. Man, I think I'm done eating hot dogs* and I'm moving on to meat art.

So, Kobe Bryant is going to stay with the Lakers. This is good news to all the girls who work at hotels of cities in the Western Conference who would love to get raped. This gives you twice as many opportunites as those who work in Eastern Conference cities. So, you can write to Jerry Buss, the owner of the Lakers, and thank him for resigning (signing again, not quitting) Kobe and giving you the opportunity to have giant black wiener forcefully placed inside of your body and thrashed around like a crocodile with a meat-formed baby in its mouth. So that was a stretch, but that's no stretch compared to how stretched out your lady parts will be once Kobe's done taking your rapeginity. That's what he's coined it now so it doesn't sound as awful as regular ole rape.

Grammar and Punctuation Usage Technique of the day:
I realized I use contractions a lot, but, quite frankly, I don't think I use them enough. Therefore, I will use them at innoportune times as right now I'm. There's nothing like seeing 'I'm' at the end of a sentence. You're probably thinking, This guy sure is bright he's.

I received comments two entries in a row, and, if I receive three or more from three different people, I will send out coupons for free naked backrubs to each of those who comment. Or, you can email me.
*as soon as the package I have is gone

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Beer In Big-Ass Cups

I don't drink. I've never had a drink of alcohol in my life, but if I did, I sure know what I would use to drink my beer. I wouldn't drink out of those sissy glasses. No! I would drink from a chalice. If you don't know what a chalice is, it's one of these.

Can you imagine walking around a bar, with your shirt off, hairy chest exposed, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a smile drinking beer from that thing? There is no chick in the bar that wouldn't be wanting to get to know you "biblically." She'd be all rubbing on your chest as you imbibe from your golden chalice as she says, "What's bigger? That big thing you're holding, or that chalice?" See? She'd use the ole switcheroo on you. That means that you're definitely getting some. Why will you be getting this massive amount of woman vagina (as opposed to man vagina --mangina)? Because of your chalice.

I wrote that last paragraph in the second person because it makes you feel more like you're a part of what's going on in this weblog. I hope to, one day, use this weblog as not only a source for entertainment, but as a self-help source as well. "You won't let the guy at the dry cleaners yell at you anymore." "You can stop eating cigarette butts you find on the street." I'm like the internet Dr. Phil, but without all of the skin on my head that's not covered in hair.

I'd probably make my chalice all personalized like people do with their pool cues, fishing rods, or semen paintings of John Travolta. I'd get my name engraved and probably encrust jewels and various etchings on the side of it. It'd be like a class ring, but way more boss and capable of drawing in a hundred times more of the delicious beef curtain soup.

On a different note, I think that the guy who created Family Circus has gotten a little weird lately.

Comment below or I will hold up my promise to start eating some more puppies. You all did a good job with the last one, but soon my thirst will arise again. Or, if you like, and you want to get my information so you can hire me to write for you, you can email me.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Back into Whoopi Goldberg's Butthole

Well, since money isn't free, it looks like I'll probably have to go back to Red Lobster (Whoopi Goldberg's Butthole) and try to see if the new GM will hire me. When I quit before, I had to quit because I couldn't work the schedule they wanted because I had school. Everything was left fine, but since I left, only three months ago, every manager that ever knew me is gone. So, now I've got to go to this new GM, who I've heard isn't exactly the poster child for nice ladies, but, coincidentally, is the actual poster child for the new disease sweeping the nation, Hepatitis Orange. I'm not sure what Hepatitis Orange is, but apparently it makes the person who has it a not nice lady.

Anyway, so I guess on Wednesday or Thursday I've got to go down there and make this lady understand that I'm the glue to her shitty, shitty working environment. Unless I magically get a job writing between now and then. It'll be fantastic when I finally start hearing back from those agencies who I want to send my screenplay to because then I'll feel so Hollywood. That's when I'm going to start calling people things like, "Babe," and saying things like, "Ciao" and "How much does it cost to have sex with you and you pretend like you're a dragon."

Hollywood's going to be awesome.

Alas, I sit with my nine thumbs up my ass, opening my wallet over and over again hoping money will appear there. I'm guilty of doing the same thing with my refrigerator when I'm hungry; it never works there, but I figure maybe money's different. If you want to send me money, feel free. It would be best, though, if you sent me various other items as I, unlike most of the world, deal in barter and trade. The other day I got two butter churners, nine cattle, and my third wife for helping with a barn raising.

I can't wait until I have money again because then I can buy that monocle I've always wanted.

Interesting thought of the day:
Ten out of Ten dentists are dentists.

I swear to God, if you all don't start commenting on this page (and it has to be people I don't know, I don't want my pity friend comments --I talk to you all the time), I'm going to start hunting each of you down and making you eat a bag of mystery poop. I call it mystery poop because you know it's poop, you just don't know where it's from. Or, if you want to give me money or items with which I can procure other items or abilities of another person, you can email me.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Disneyland and Prison Rape!

Since I've been doing nothing but sitting in my room letting my facial hair grow until it starts to itch my chest while I wait to hear back from the 23 agencies to whom I sent my letters of inquiry, I'm going to write about random stuff. 'To whom' always feels too formal, but I can't end the sentence in a preposition, so I have to do that. If you don't like it, you'll be to whom I send my bag of punches in the face.

A post on a message board I read was asking about bad birthdays that people have had, so I wanted to relate a bad one of my own. When I was turning eleven years old, as was tradition, I went to Disneyland with my family. It was an extra special birthday because my knee was hurting a lot leading up to that day because I'm a huge wuss and I hurt it playing basketball, yet, as soon as I stepped foot in the park, the pain in my knee magically went away. This was going to be a great day, I told myself. Skipping merrily through Main Street, we headed immediately toward Fantasyland because I was eleven years old and I think the first ride I wanted to go on was something like Peter Pan or Pinocchio. On the way there, we passed by the Sword in the Stone. I remember, in years past, how cool I thought the whole ceremony was and how I wished that one day I could be a part of it. As luck would have it, the ceremony was just about to begin, so, my younger brother, mom, dad, and I gathered around in the front row as the ritual began. They called up the first person, a man, probably thirty or so, pretty strong looking. He tugged and tugged and could not remove that sword. They called another man up, who looked a lot like the first guy, who tried as hard as he could, but, once again, no luck. Then, it happened. The man in the wizard getup pointed in my direction. Butterflies filled my stomach and a little pee shot out. He walked toward me with his hand out to pull me up to the sword. This was it, I thought. I'm going to pull the sword out of the stone on my birthday. I love my family. Can life get any greater at this moment? I don't think so. As I'm about to put my hand out to grab the wizard's hand so I can be escorted to be King for a Day at Disneyland, I realize that he's pointing at my younger brother. So, he goes up to the sword, pulls it from its place deep within the heart of the Fiberglas rock, and holds it into the sky. Trumpets and music played and the crowd erupted in applause. The wizard draped a kingly cloak and crown upon his head and he had his picture taken to be picked up at Main Street on the way out that day. All of a sudden, my knee started to hurt.

Fuck that birthday. Fuck it in its filthy Happiest-Place-on-Earth face.

On a different note, I got a collect call from a prison yesterday. Too bad I couldn't understand what name he gave when he called. I think I was still hung up on the preface of "You have received a collect call from some correctional facility." If you've never had a collect call from a prison, it's really an experience you should go through. There are a lot of options that you can do like block the prison from ever calling you again. I was tempted to do that, because it was obviously a wrong number, but then I figured if he can misdial once, he can misdial again and I don't want to deny either of us. I will learn his name. I almost felt bad just hanging up the phone, but I didn't have the option to learn more about the prison inmate whose phone bill I might be footing. If there was an option like "To learn more about what crimes this person has been convicted of, press 4 now." I would have been all over that like the lonely, depressed bridesmaid on the wedding cake. Alas, I could not further the relationship between myself and my unknown probable-murderer because there was no option 4.

If you're a reader of mine, "Ray Ray," call me again. I promise I'll accept the charges.

Astoundingly Genius Moment of the Day:
When I waited tables, a deaf couple came to the hostess stand to be sat. The hostess, noticing the couple is deaf, promptly grabbed two braille menus and showed the couple to their seat.

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