You're the Meaning In My Life, You're the Inspiration

I was struck by inspiration the other day while relaxing with my girlfriend. I just heard this song in my head and had to get it out as soon as I could. A word of warning, it's me singing and performing it, so it's not professional by any means and, also, the quality of the file is kind of shitty. Deal with it.

Edit from the future: I've since re-recorded the song so the quality is better. That can be found here.

My Girlfriend

I may not update for a few days just to leave this visible to new people if this catches on. If not, I'll delete this and make a ritual sacrifice of one severed penis to the Gods of shitty acoustic music.

Because God Says So--That's Why!

Fucking God is up to his old tricks again. This time, the old bastard decided that he just couldn't let the last day of the Olympics go off without a hitch.



This guy in the skirt that looks like a pizza box was just doing what God told him to do when he jumped out and tackled the guy who looks like he's either pooping his pants or just finding out that there's no water at the finish line. This article says that the "defrocked Irish priest" has tried this type of stunt before to promote the teachings of God at cricket and rugby matches. God has a bad P.R. department then because you'd think he'd pick events that people actually give a fuck about. I heard he's planning to have somebody run into the auditorium and throw over a chess board at an exhibition match at a high school for the deaf in Ohio. There's going to be a lot of unintelligible moaning and hand movement to be heard for feet and yards around.

I don't know about you, but I'm sick of this God character. He tells all these people to do all sorts of weird shit, and nobody ever calls him on that. Nobody ever says to blame God when they lose the Superbowl, but, when they win it, he's the first one they thank. Congratulations, you just won a Grammy, who would you like to thank? Well, first I'd like to thank my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Horatio Christ. Just once, I want to see this.

INT. AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Some shitty band stands up on the stage announcing the winner for Best New Artist.

Evanescence: And the Grammy goes to...Simply Red!

The crowd applauds as Holding Back the Years blares. Suddenly, all of Culture Club stands up, points to the sky and yells: Fuck you, God!!! You promised! You said if we did a song called "Karma Chameleon," you'd totally give us a Grammy. We don't even know what a Karma Chameleon is!

That's what I want to see. First, I'd have to get that Time Machine working. It just isn't fair that God always gets off scot-free. But if I told somebody that I'm going to help them win something, and, if they win, they have to thank me, but if they lose, they can't blame me, they'd look at me like I was crazy and then ask why I was wearing nothing but rainbow suspenders and a garter belt and standing in the middle of their lawn while the sprinklers were on while hoisting my boom box blasting "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel in the air a la John Cusack in Say Anything. The previous 89 words were brought to you by the John Steinbeck Foundation for Run-On Sentences. Next time something doesn't go my way, I'm blaming God. When I go to Vegas in a week and a half, if I lose, I'm going to interrupt some sporting events, like a pinata beating at a children's party or a Scrabble Championship, with signs that say, "God Hates You" and "If God Really Loved You, Would He Have Given You That Lazy Eye? I Didn't Think So. That Means He Doesn't Exist. You Should Probably Go Think About That Suicide Now." Maybe that second one would be a banner.

God just told me I'm done writing this entry.

Interesting thought of the day:
Frosting is good on EVERYTHING. Seriously. I put frosting on a sandwich of my own pubic hair and it was delicious.

Children of the World Are My Puppets!

This weekend, I, once again, found myself in a situation where I was surrounded by children. Now, to many of my readers this may seem like a wet dream on some level or another, but, to me, children normally spell the deepest darkest pits of Hell and despair. That is, until I found out, how to use kids to entertain myself.

A child who can speak, ages 2-7 or so, does anything for attention. So, if you're talking to said child, and tell them to repeat something you say, they will, more often than not, do this because kids are dumb and I'm convinced that they all have some form of brain damage because a lot of them can't even really count or talk right. All it takes is for me to tell the kid to say something to somebody and he does it. He's like my own, personal, living, breathing Instant Messenger service. Moments later, I hear his mother yell from across the room, "You are not a bastard child and a complete waste of human flesh." Mission accomplished. Having a kid put himself down isn't where the fun stops, though. A lot of times, a kid will show more loyalty to a stranger than he will to his own parents (hence my summer "Our Little Secret" Tour of 2002). This can be used by telling a kid to scream out, "By the way, mom, your breast milk tasted like shit. I'm glad I'm off that stuff. It's like liquid ass." Granted, it may not come out as eloquent as that, but, nonetheless, making a kid say "shit" and "ass" has to be one of the top five joys of life.

I also saw two movies this weekend: Suspect Zero and Garden State. I'll start with the shitty one first. There may be some spoilers for Suspect Zero to follow, so, if, for some odd reason, you really want to see that movie, don't keep reading. But, trust me, I'm doing you a favor (I'm not going to spoil the ending or anything though, but I may talk about plot points). Suspect Zero is a movie about Ghandi as a serial killer. On paper this sounds like solid motherfucking gold. It's shitty, though, because the main guy, Aaron Eckhart, could be one of the worst actors in existence. Granted, he didn't have a good script to work with, but Ghandi managed to make the movie less shitty, so ole Eckhart should have done his part, too. There's a cool part of the film that involves remote viewing, which I've never seen used in a movie before, but that's the only real original part of the movie. The rest of it is like Se7en if Se7en was a shitty movie. That's all I want to write about this movie because, honestly, it makes me want to go back to the theatre and bodyslam everybody that works there onto a mattress filled with guns and sticks.

Garden State, on the other hand, was a really good movie. It does have some vaginistic moments of romantic goodness that some people may not care for, but, for the most part (except for the very ending) it worked well and never went too far with the sugary bits without making fun of itself or taking it in a direction that films don't normally go. Also, Natalie Portman is in it and made me want to marry her. This is a big deal because I don't even think I want to get married, but, if Natalie Portman wrote me a letter or a really nice email, I think I'd consider it for her. Also, the movie has a few retarded jokes, so, of course I like it. Fuck the retards in their giant heads and spaced-too-far-apart eyeballs. Serves 'em right for being all sensitive and happy and smelling like shampoo and candy.

The Aforementioned Top Five Joys of Life (in no particular order, just that there are five of them):

• Making a kid cuss (especially in front of his parents or other immediate family).
• Watching anybody you don't know trip or hurt themselves (the more severely the better) in public.
• Watching somebody you do know trip or hurt themselves in public.*
• Making fun of Jesus in front of somebody who believes in God and all that stuff.
• Slimjims two for a dollar at 7-11.

*The same rules as the above item apply.

If there was something I missed, I know you all will fill it in for me below. So hop to it, my bitches.

Interesting thought of the day:
On the internet, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's probably a dude pretending to be a chick.

Awkward Silences--Film at Eleven!

I take pleasure in the little things in life: midgets, ponies, my "innie" genitalia, and awkward moments in live television. The best of these comes when a newsperson is giving a "news brief" of what's going to be on the news coming up at whatever time and they finish early. I think the station allots a certain amount of time for these segments, like fifteen seconds, and when the bastards finish early, it's probably the happiest time of my day.

This is how one of those situations goes:
Newscaster: "...so, I'm afraid somebody's going to have to buy little Timmy a new bicycle, or else fish it out of Delta Burke's ass. We'll have the rest of the story at eleven."

Now, the magic.

The broadcaster--we'll call it a him so I don't have to be so pronounally ambiguous--looks into the camera with a forced smile that can pass as normal if it's onscreen for a half second. But, when that smile lingers on camera, that guy can pass for a whole bag of murderers all wrapped up in one. Then, when they know it's going too long, you can see their eyes start to dip, wanting so bad to look down at the paper in front of them to escape the torture of that red light staring back at them with nothing to say, but, they learned in Journalism school that, in order for America to trust you, you've always got to grab 'em by the balls and stare 'em in the eyes. Maybe that's Dog Obedience School. Whatever.

Today, though, today was the quintessential moment of my awkward-silences-in-news-broadcasts-watching existence. I had on Fox News right before the O'Reilly Factor started because there's nothing I like more than watching somebody on TV that I know, for a fact, I'm better than in every aspect, and some guy who does the quick news named Skip, Chip, or Blade or something was way too brief with his news brief and had time to kill. He made things more awkward by acknowledging the fact that he finished early and he didn't know what to do with the time. Then, in saying that, he had filled the time he was trying to escape, but then he ended with something that multipled that awkwardness tenfold. It was like walking in on your brother masturbating, then starting to masturbate yourself. He said, "Later." He didn't say, "I'll see you later" or "Catch you later." No. He ended a news broadcast like he just finished hearing from his frat brother that they had secured a keg for their Toga party this weekend and it was going to be "fucking sweet." Fuck that guy. No, wait. I think his name is Shepard Smith. Yep. That's him. Fuck him in his stupid fucking part in his hair.

There's another newscaster who bugs me, but he's just a local LA guy. He used to work for NBC a long time ago, but he's been with Fox for a long time now. Anyway, the guy's name is John Beard. The reason he irritates me is that, he's got the built-in name and yet, just to spite me, he never grows a goddamn beard! If my name was Kurt Muttonchops you better believe I'd sport those sons of bitches as soon as I could grow them. If I was born Hairlip O'Hunchback, I'd do my best to make these things come to fruition; I'd graft my lip to the tip of my nose and take a sledgehammer to the spine. I implore you, John Beard, for like a week, grow a beard to go with your mustache that taunts me.

That's all.

Later.

Interesting thought of the day:
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but don't go telling it that, it's already got a big enough head as it is.

Scratch and Burn!

This entry isn't about the new line of stickers I'm coming out with that smell like delicious Pepper Spray. No, the formal announcement for my new sticker line won't come out until Fall. It's time I write about Vagisil.

I don't know the ins and outs of exactly how or what this magical ointment does, but the commercials do a fantastic job of making me feel uncomfortable. They say how it will ease--and these are their words--the "itching and smell." Okay, gross. But, they don't stop there. They show some lady who is obviously overjoyed that, finally, her vagina doesn't burn or stink anymore. I guess I'd be ecstatic if, for weeks on end, my cock felt like it was being boiled in a pot of bleach and piranas, and all I had to do was apply a salve, but the commercial doesn't let it end there. This woman's happy because her vagina doesn't have the flu anymore, so, they decide to show just what it's capable of doing now that it's rejuvenated. They have the woman doing things that highlight her ladyparts. I don't mean she puts glowsticks or flares in there (though that would totally sell me on buying some Vagisil), but they no longer show her face and it's pretty much a shot of her vagina going crazy. She's doing these exercises that nobody ever does unless they're showing off the fact they've got maximum extension of their entire vaginal region. The first exercise was okay, it was a woman doing lunges, but the second one they showed was the same woman, naked from the waist down, and a midget was speedbagging her labia. Then it showed a shot of her face where she just stood there with a smug look on her face like, "Nope. I don't feel a thing. Thanks, Vagisil!"

That's how you write a long paragraph containing complete overusage of the word "vagina." I've got a lot of euphemisms for the man's beef-wand, but I just don't have as many for the woman's parts, so you'll have to either supply me with more, or deal with it.

Made-up Aphorism of the day:
A broken arm is worse than a broken heart. At least with a broken heart, you can still masturbate.

If You Cut Me, Do I Not Bleed Chocolatey Goodness?

I had to go to Wal-Mart today to buy some things and whenever I'm at Wal-Mart I make it a point to buy cereal. I don't know how, and I don't want to know how, but for some reason, at Wal-Mart, cereal is so cheap, it's like it's free but costs a little bit of money. My cereals of choice are Cap'n Crunch and Cocoa Pebbles. It must have been a long time since I've had cereal because today, in total, I've had 4 bowls of Cocoa Pebbles. Right now my heart's beating like the bassline to some shitty-ass techno song (I realize that "shitty-ass techno song" is redundant--it's like saying, fat girl on a webcam or pregnant Hispanic teenager). But, if it weren't for my colon which, at this moment is like a landmine filled with shit--if I sit down on it wrong, it's going to explode, I'd build a machine that constantly fed me Cap'n Crunch and Cocoa Pebbles. There's already something like this called a live-in nurse, but I can't get one of those until I fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming lazy to the point of mentally-induced paralyzation.

With all of these regular Olympics taking up the entire channel spectrum, there's another event that's not getting televised and I wish to God it was: the Special Olympics. The thing I like about the Special Olympics is that you can have varying degrees of disadvantage in order to participate. For instance, in the 100-meter dash, you can have a guy who's missing a leg competing against somebody who, not ten minutes before, held a log of his own shit to the sky and yelled out, "I'm Harry Potter" and thrusted his newly acquired fecal wand at his reflection in the mirror. The best thing about it is that there's a chance that the guy with one leg, who's not mentally handicapped in any way, can lose to a guy who's ten kinds of retarded. It's a little known fact, but retards have strength like ants; they can carry, like, twenty times their own body weight. I'm sure that that can translate to a fast 100 meter dash speed if he's facing the right way when the gun goes off to scare him away from "The Bang Bang Stick."

I'd want to be a judge in the Special Olympics because, from what I've heard from the brothel featuring purely retarded women that I frequent, everybody gets a medal no matter what. So, in weightlifting, if one person goes up and actually lifts the weights and does a good job, that's considered exactly as good as the kid who pulls the weight off of the bar and starts to hump it. No wonder these kids are retarded; it's easy. I'll bet in all of their classes they get A's and they all get 1600s on the retarded SATs (the RSATs). I'm going to look try to see what it would cost me to get somebody to shoot me with a nail gun in my corpus callosum and move it around a little in there--really tear some shit up. Imagine being able to not get in trouble for walking around a clothing store naked trying on women's bathrobes. If only I had this excuse two years ago, I'd still be allowed in Target.

Man, it felt good to write about retarded kids again; I missed it.

I still need suggestions for a guest writer, motherfuckers. And, Amy, yeah, $3.99 does suck for a gallon of milk, but I think I failed to mention that the milk was from the teat of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Interesting thought of the day:
Hepatitis C is named such because it's the dumbest of all the Hepatitis strains.

Pennies from Heaven or Nirvana or Whatever Indian People Believe In!

The other day, I went to 7-11 to buy some milk. In my neighborhood, this consists of dodging the groups of people coming out who travel around in their own fog of weed smoke. So, here I go, on probably a Friday night or something, walking into 7-11 to buy a gallon of milk. Could I be any whiter? Jesus Christ. I think I also bought "The White Man's Guide to Getting Along With Everybody Else Who Thinks I Automatically Hate Them Just Because I'm White" by L. Ron Hubbard.

Anyway, so I walk up to the counter and plop the gallon down. The young Middle Eastern boy behind the counter pushes some buttons or rubs his genie's lamp or something and the total comes to $3.99. Cool. I've got four ones in my pocket so I'll just tell him to keep the change. I hand him the four singles and before I can say "Keep the change" he says, "Okay, thank you" dismissing me for the dope-scented bundle of joy behind me. I walked out of the 7-11 confused. Did that guy just assume I wanted him to keep the change? Fuck that guy. Should I go back in there and ask for my penny? No. It's just a penny. But it's the principle of the thing. It'll teach him not to assume things about people. I don't assume things about him, like he's got a magic lamp beneath his cash register or anything. But I didn't go back in and instead went to fill up one of my tires with air.

The more I thought about losing that penny, though, the more it irked me. Maybe I'm saving all my pennies up to give to babies who are born as witches and need money for their dewitching surgery. He just made a baby stay a witch for a little longer. Motherfucker. Or, perhaps I melt all my pennies down and smelt (that's a nine-dollar word) my own, full-scale replicas of Connie Chung that I may, on a lonely night, pretend that I'm Maury Povich with. The point is, he doesn't know, so he shouldn't just take my penny.

Now I know how they fill up that Take a Penny-Leave a Penny tray. It's all extortion money. They know people won't say anything about a penny. But they've never met me before. I'm going to march in there tomorrow, grab the Take-A-Penny tray and just run out the door. Maybe I'll even throw myself through the glass on the door just to get my point across. Yeah. That's what I'll do. I'll show them. When I'm paying my thousands of dollars in doctor's bills and cosmetic surgery, I'll need donations to help pay for it, and what better place to get them from, than the Take-A-Penny tray. It's the Circle of Life like that Elton John song or the nickname for the hula hoop of babies that I like to exercise with.

I asked about religion in the previous post because, maybe in the future, I'll give my whole spiel about what people are supposed to believe. And, when I say supposed to believe, I mean that I am right and you are wrong if you think different than me. That's what religion should be about: One ultimate truth.

I may have a guest writer in the next day or two. Maybe I could have some suggestions as to whom it should be. If I don't get any, I already have somebody in mind. I have social power more far-reaching than any of you could even fathom. I can get anybody from Alf to Tina Yothers and everything in between.

Interesting thought of the day:
The next time somebody asks you, "How are you?" just answer, "Pregnancy Backpack Chemotherapy" because nobody actually listens to what you say when they ask you that--they're just trying to be nice because you have a hunchback.

Phone Home! Not On My Watch, Bitch!

In what could soon come to overshadow the neverending Olympic coverage, an old man from Portland kicked a little ass and took a few names. Literally. I actually want to saw my own head off with a rusty knife or one sharp spoon for writing that opening and you will too once you hear what I'm talking about. A senior citizen (I hate the phrase "senior citizen" it makes them sound like they have authority over me when they don't. They can't tell me what to do. They're not the boss of me!) became the champion of ripping phone books in half. The guy is 69 years old and he can rip 39 more phone books in half than I can. I have trouble tearing my movie ticket stub and that's got built-in perforations (just like stretchmarks). And he did it all in three minutes!

The following is a list of my greatest accomplishments in three minutes:

• Roped, murdered, and consumed an entire baby cow. People sometimes refer to these as "calves" but, because of previous cannibalism allegations, I prefer to alleviate the confusion from the getgo.
• For three minutes I didn't think about what it would be like to wear Ashley Judd's skin as my own, personal exoskeleton.
• It only took me three minutes to work the word "exoskeleton" into one of my writings.

As you can see, I don't do a lot of things in three minutes. I'm sure all you lady (yeah, I'm talking to you) know what I'm talking about. I have no idea. I just hear people say things like that and they wink, nudge and move their eyebrows a lot and I think that these people are very awesome.

In other news, Paul Hamm, one half of what has been scientifically proven to be the gayest set of twins ever created, won the Olympic all-around gold in men's Gymnastics (or, as I so cleverly like to call it, "Himnastics") after what I'm being told was a remarkable comeback. I wouldn't know what a comeback is like because I'm always number one like a man without an asshole (I'll let you think about that one for a while), but I'll take their word for it. I'm not quite sure why I'm bringing this up except for the fact that I wish my last name was stylistically an homage to my favorite sandwich. I'd be Kurt Peebeeanjay-Wifda-Cruszkutof. It's Russian. Shut up.

Finally, and this is a new homework assignment (don't forget, though, your other assignment, punching people in the face as you yell out my website, is ongoing), I really want people to comment on this one, but I have a specific request. I'd like for people to comment their thoughts about religion. This can be either their set of beliefs, what they feel about organized religion, or just whatever sort of thoughts you want to write. Also, one stipulation, no comments about Priests molesting children because that's just not funny--not unless the child is retarded or just asking for it because of the way they dress.

Interesting thought of the day:
Next time you see a kid crying in the middle of some store, walk up to it and knee it square in the face. Little kids cry about all sorts of shit, nobody's going to believe that it's because a grown person totally Taekwando'd their face. Plus, that kid's not even thinking about what he was crying about before, so you actually helped it.

The Olympics Are Positively Racist!

I'm sick of people always calling racism when it's only about bad things, like how black people always steal stuff, Mexican people always pick oranges and dance to horn music, or how white people can't dance and can't steal stuff or pick oranges. Well, I'm happy to say that the Olympics are here to change all that negative racism and turn racism into something even the family can enjoy.

I'm not very gay, but sometimes I have my gay moments. One of the ways that I "gay out" is by watching women's gymnastics when the Olympics come around. Now, I could try to cover it up by saying something macho like, "I watch it because the girls are hot and flexible" but, honestly, it's like watching ten-year-old boys flip around. Wait a minute, that DOES give me an erection. Anyway, so I'm watching women's gymnastics, and the commentators (one, I think, is named Elfi--a problem of its own) make sweeping statements about the people from the countries. They say things like, "The Chinese are the masters of the uneven bars." What? You bitch. I can't believe they get away with saying things like this. Where's the FCC to crack down on this bullshit? I'll let this slide once, maybe just the gymnastics commentators are racist, so I continued to watch. Swimming came up and there was a girl from Zimbabwe there. Cool, good for Zimbabwe; they finally got swimming pools. But, the announcer just couldn't let it go. He said, "The Zimbabweans are really good at the start," I was fine up to here, but then he went on to say, "it's no wonder that they've got a white girl swimming for Zimbabwe because everybody knows black people are afraid of the water and get diarrhea from drinking chocolate milk." Now that's just ridiculous. Black people are no more lactose intolerant than white people, but they are much more Sickle-Celly. I've already drafted an angry letter about this.

Dear Olympics,

As a mother of two, raising my full-blooded Eskimo daughters in the anti-Eskimo state of Delaware, I'm very upset at your Olympic coverage. I did not buy my twin daughters from the Eskimo black market and move them to Delaware just to have them endure racism from every angle. Your Olympic coverage made me want to get a refund for my daughters, or at least sell them for parts, so that they wouldn't have to be brought up in such a racist society. I've since rethought this and decided to keep one--the one that's not such a whore--and I gave the other one to a bear at the zoo because he looked hungry; we all know how bears love the taste of infant Eskimo flesh.

Your commentators covering the Olympics, including the French and Jew-hating Bob Costas, were constantly, and without hesitation, throwing out racial remarks like they were going out of style. Well, I'll tell you what, racism was never in style. I mean, for a while there it was starting to get popular with the children's TV show, Teenage Mutant Ninja Racists, but that was stopped when the toys came out and each figure came with a free cross-burning kit. But, Mr. Olympics, for the most part, racism has never been in style and I don't like you trying to promote it with your incessant talk of "The Romanians are fantastic on the balance beam" or "Those Russians sure do like to drink and/or fuck penguins because it's so cold in Russia."

In closing, I'd like a written letter of apology hand-signed by the president of the Olympics, Zeus, and an autographed poster of Christopher Hewitt (better known as Mr. Belvedere). If my demands are not met, I'll take my claims to the ACLU where we will surely stop the racist Olympics from continuing on by starting Olympics of our own with events such as "Synchronized Vomiting," "Mixed Doubles Child Molestation," and "Team Eyeball Smashing." We're sure our Olympics can be successful and without all of the racist overtones that yours have.

Anxiously awaiting your reply,

Barbara Bush

Now, some of the letter may contain half-truths, but it's merely for emphasis and to get my point across. I can't wait to hear back from them because I really need that Mr. Belvedere autograph to start and complete my collection of autographs from famous, chubby, gay, British guys.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you're a girl and you can fit your own fist in your mouth and you show this to guys, you're a whore. I can stick four fingers in my urethra, sideways, but I don't go showing it off, because I'm not a floozy like you are.

Florida, God Gearing Up For November Elections

In an effort to cleanse the state of senile old people and clueless white-trash, God decided to take the gayest-named hurricane to date and kick Florida's ass with it. Hurricane Charley (actually spelled like that--it's named after its Welsh grandmother) raped and murdered 16 Floridians because they were dumb and tried to fistfight the hurricane. Personally, I find "rape by hurricane" (my kickass new band name, also--we'll be performing at the House of Blues in Anaheim at a September 11th tribute show) to be one of the top five worst ways to die. Everybody knows you can't punch a hurricane; you have to use silver bullets. They're the werewolves of the national disaster circuit (coincidentally, Werewolves of the National Disaster Circuit is the name of my Fantasy Football team). Coincidences abound in this edition of the half-true news.

When reached for comment, God was quoted as saying, "It's their fault, really. I gave them Free Will, and they went and fucked it all up. So I took things into my own hands and wrecked a little shop." He went on to say, "Look, if they're too dumb to figure out what hole to punch when they're voting, then they really shouldn't exist in the first place. I feel partly responsible because I created them in my image, but, truthfully, I am not that fucking retarded."

I also managed to find what God called his "score sheet" when I was looking through his office when he stepped out to take a shit. Also, let me tell you, when God takes a shit, he clears the room; Paul the apostle said, "It's like the scent of a thousand shits from a thousand years of shits resting in the cradle of the biggest avocado colored toilet you've ever seen."

God's "Hurricane Charley" Score Sheet

• I managed to lift a chubby Hispanic woman eighty feet in the air and, in a complete sense of Biblical irony, impale her on a wooden straw sticking out of a Slim Fast billboard.
• I destroyed a mobile home park because, well, it's what everybody's come to expect of me, really. What's a hurricane without busted-up mobile homes? It's like a stripper without father issues or a glass of water without water. (editor's note: God is surprisingly bad with analogies)
• YOU KNOW I FINALLY DID IT! I'VE BEEN TRYING FOR EONS AND FINALLY MANAGED TO RIP A BABY IN HALF USING WIND FORCE ALONE.

He's a pretty weird individual and he's not as "perfect" as people have made him out to be. For one thing, his office was completely disorganized (there was a sign in the office that said, "I bless this mess") and he has horrible taste. He has one of those Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish things hanging in his office. Also, you'd think that God's voice would be this big, booming, authoritative voice, but it's really nasal. And, contrary to Mel Gibson's interpretation, he doesn't speak Aramaic. I asked him about this and he said he doesn't know where that came from and that he's heard Aramaic and has decided that it's a completely false language, like Klingon or Mexican.

Top Five Worst Ways to Die (in no particular order):

• The aforementioned "rape by hurricane."
• Beat up by midgets who formed together like Voltron to form one regular-sized person.
• "Peared" to death (the medieval torture device, not the fruit) in all orifices at once.
• Starved to death because you were stuck beneath that fat woman who became a part of her couch.
• Being a full-term aborted fetus in Star Jones' womb.
  

Interesting thought of the day:
Magic Markers aren't really magic, but, because of their name, over three hundred Magic Markers were burned at the stake or drowned during the Salem Witch Trials.

Get Ready For The "Big Fat Greek" Everything!

With the Olympics taking place in Greece for the next fortnight or so, escaping all of the horrible headlines containing some derivation of "Big Fat Greek" will be impossible. So, I'm going to try to keep track of all the ridiculously unoriginal headlines that contain this phrase because I'm like that guy in A Beautiful Mind and I see patterns in everything--you should see me dissect my own stool in order to unlock the keys to the Universe.

After a quick search, these are the "Big Fat Greek" headlines right now:
My Big Fat Greek Scandal - This is about how some weird, hairy, Greek runner guy crashed his motorcycle while driving with another hairy, Greek, female Olympian. They're rumored to have been all doped up on Big Fat Greek steroids while riding their Big Fat Greek Harley down the Big Fat Greek Highway. No wonder writers always use that phrase, it's so much fun! This could have easily been titled, Nobody But Smelly Greeks Give a Big Fat Shit and it would have made much better use of the "Big Fat" phenomenon.

Big Fat Greek Welcome - This one's from a Canadian newspaper, so it's inherently boring, much like the same child porn you've seen thirty times. I mean, it's nice, but it's nothing special. It's just so happy and sugar-coated that I'm seriously contemplating spraypainting the entire country of Canada with the phrase, "Canadoesn't." I'm not sure what it means, but I love making up compound words; it's funtasticunt. This man should have titled his story, Canada Loves Everything--Especially Kittens and Yummy Pancakes.

Big Fat Greek Fiasco? - Finally, this story is what I love most about American journalism: fear. This story talks about how there could be a bombing in Athens much like that in Atlanta in 1996. It's a cynical piece about how there are volunteers in Athens that are paid to always be happy and smiling no matter what is going on in order to try to comfort all of the visitors. I've just purchased my ticket at priceline.com to go to Greece where I will find every one of these people and proceed to pour bags of AIDS and rare strains of Malaria and River Blindness all over them. If they don't smile while I do it, I will make sure that they are promptly fired because I want the facade of happiness and ease covering up everything. It's like, you know that the majority of people that work at Disneyland hate their job, but Michael Eisner makes them smile and laugh or else, I've heard, he calls them into his office and bludgeons one of their family members to death with a foot tall, marble Mickey Mouse statuette. His article should have been titled, We're All Going To Die! Holy Fucking Shit! The Olympics Are Going to Explode!

These places need to hire me to write for them. I don't even have to write the articles, I can just write the headlines.

It's late. I'm tired. I've got four ounces of sand in my vagina, so it's off to bed.

Interesting thought of the day:
Men should always date single mothers because you know that they're way easy and they'll totally have sex with you because, hey, they've done it once, the seal's already been broken, what's one more time? By the way, the second half of that sentence does NOT work great as a pickup line for said women.

I respond to comments:
Flesh, my previous title was a reference to a scene in one of the Austin Powers movies. This, of course, could have been a parody of The Prisoner in itself.

Weesa, thanks for the praise. I've got a crapping my pants story I may share in the future as well. Though it wasn't at a Bar Mitzvah, it was because of being surrounded by an overabundance of Jewish people and freshly snipped foreskin.

Who Does Number Two Work For?

A week or two ago, I wrote about my habits concerning going number one. Now, I feel it's time to discuss going numero dos. So, if you don't like reading about poop, I'd suggest you don't read this and, instead, you make up a rap song about Mickey Mouse as a pimp (then submit them to me please, I'm cutting an album that's going to drop this Christmas).

On occasion, a person is granted with the ability to shoot water out of an area where solids normally exit. Recently, because of something I ate, I was granted said ability. The sound is pretty odd because it sounds like somebody's got a huge pitcher of Kool-Aid poised above the toilet and they dump it all out as fast as they can. I was pouring a lot of Kool-Aid that night. Anyway, as can sometimes happen, when I was cleaning up the area, I accidentally got a little bit of the liquid shit on my thumb. Now, when this happens, it's absolutely disgusting, but for some reason it's not as gross as when it happens after I've shat normally. I think it's because diarrhea is like shit from concentrate. Since it's mixed with water, it's not as potent or tart or whatever as it would be if it was just regular, sloppy shit. I'd much rather have to stick my hand in a bowl of diarrhea than stick my hand in a pile of firm, warm crap. At least with diarrhea, I'm getting a diluted version of poop.

I'm weird when it comes to using the bathroom in public, too. First, when I pee, I can't really go at a regular urinal; there's some sort of a personal space problem I have with somebody being able to see my back as I pee. But, even worse is having to take a dump in public. I don't mean like in the middle of McDonald's (which I've done, and they don't particularly care for--even if you tell them you're making room so you can buy more food), but I mean in a public restroom. There are some that are good, like the bathrooms in the New York, New York casino in Las Vegas. Those doors go all the way to the ground; it's like your own room that you get to shit in. The ones I hate are the bathrooms at the beach with no sort of doors whatsoever. I don't know who thought of this idea at the beach--maybe it's so people will only shit there if they really, really have to--but let's just say, I've pooped in the Pacific Ocean a whole lot more than I've pooped in their no-door-having stalls. Also, though, the other bathrooms that suck to try to sit down and drop a relaxing deuce in are the ones that fool you into thinking they're secure. They can fool you in one of a few ways (or a combination of these). First, their locks can be backward or just completely non-functioning, so you have to sit there with your hand or your foot out toward the door in case anybody tries to open it. The part about this is, if you're using your foot and somebody looks underneath the door to see if somebody's in the stall, they think there's a guy with one leg taking a dump in the bathroom. So they're going to stand outside the stall waiting for you to come out because how often do you get to see a one-legged man finish taking a crap? Second, the bathrooms will have a door, but the cracks in the door on the sides where the hinges are are so wide that there may as well be no door there anyway. Anybody with a wandering eye can catch you in your most intimate of situations maybe mumbling your own motivational bathroom chants to yourself, "Over the teeth and through the gums, look out toilet here it comes" or "I'm pooping out red meat from seven years ago right now." That's my personal favorite. Finally, and this has only happened to me in Vegas since I don't go to fancy restaurants normally, I hate when there's an actual bathroom attendant. That has to be the worst job imaginable, having to smell the shit of people who couldn't hold it long enough to get back to their hotel room. Also, you're supposed to tip this guy because he helps you clean up after you've taken a monster-dump. The germophobes out there know that money is already really dirty as it is, but throw a thumb that just accidentally brushed up against an asshole in there that's now touching some money, and it's off the charts.

That's really enough about pooping habits. If you feel the need to comment, don't comment about pooping if you're a girl because I've convinced myself that girls don't poop.

Interesting thought of the day:
1 out of 26 letters is F.

Kunta Kinte! Beeep!

In the eighth grade, we had to watch Roots in one of my classes. Each class was about 50 minutes, so we had to watch Roots over a span of about my entire eighth grade year. This wouldn't have been so bad because it's a very interesting movie, but I went to a ghetto junior high. See, for some reason, we didn't have access to video tapes of the film, instead, we had to watch the filmstrip of roots. The film really loses something when it's in a tense situation, like when Kunta is getting whipped because he won't adopt his slave name, Toby, and you don't actually get to see the whipping, just still frames of the whip being pulled back, then another picture of the guy from Reading Rainbow writhing in pain. This is even less effective when, in order to get to see the next frame, you are prompted by a beep telling you to push the button to go to the next still frame.



The Slavemaster stands poised behind Kunta Kinte, the whip held over his shoulder ready to crack Kunta on the back.

Slavemaster: What's your name, boy?

Kunta: Kunta...Kinte.

Whip crack! Kunta screams.

Beeeeeeep. The kid pushes the button to go to the next frame.

Kunta has a look of "Oh, I'll never read another book to children again" on his face. The slavemaster looks very happy that he's beating up the guy with the wicked awesome sunglasses from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

I'm not that old, either. It's not like I went to school in a time when VCRs were few and far between, they were just trying to squeeze all they could out of the free copy of Roots that the local public library lent out on 8mm.

The worst part about having to do film strips in class, as opposed to a videotaped program, was that somebody always had to push the button when the beep sounded. Somehow this was always the job given to the dumbest, most ADD-ridden person in the classroom. I just remember thinking, "Shit, not Ramon working the projector--maybe he'll let somebody else do it." But that never happened. When the first beep would sound, he would always miss it because he was too busy talking into the cooling fan of the projector because it made him sound like Darth Vader. Then, by the time he started hearing everybody telling him to push the button, the thing had beeped again, so he had to go ahead two times. So, he'd push it three times because he's an idiot. Because he's gone too far, he'll try to go back, but he can never find the back button in time, so the thing has beeped again, putting him on the right page now, but he doesn't hear it because he can't listen and look at the same time (I think this is connected to why people turn down their car stereo when they're looking for a parking space). So he finds the back button finally, goes back a page, and I reach over and rip off both of his arms and beat him to death with them.

Maybe I was just too anal retentive about the projectors, but goddamn if I couldn't sleep at night if the sound and the picture didn't align.

I've gotten a few comments from some "anonymous" poster who seems to know me in real life. He's right, I have a story about hugging a retarded girl, but I'll save it for another time as I've written a lot about retarded people lately.

Interesting thought of the day:
People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, but nobody ever tells them what they should throw--naked midgets with glow sticks hot-glued to their bodies.

Roofies!

There's a thing that people do that irritates me. Imagine that--me, irritated at something somebody does. Anyway, I hate when people "Raise the Roof." First, it just looks retarded. It's kind of like how you're supposed to applaud for deaf people--you know, how for deaf people you're supposed to raise your hands in the air and give them Jazz Hands? If you don't know what this looks like, The thetoon.blogspot.com Dancers demonstrate that here:


So, I've always hated people that raise the roof in complete seriousness after they enjoy something. It just doesn't make any sense; the motion itself looks ridiculous, and it doesn't have the pinache that clapping does. Also, it seems to take a lot more effort than is necessary to convey to somebody that you are enjoying what they are doing. I've spent $40 million on scientific research that concludes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Raising the Roof is much more physically taxing (it burns 60 calories per roof raise as compared to clapping's 27) and way more retarded looking than clapping. If clapping was Shannon Doherty's weird, misaligned eyeballs, Raising the Roof is Corky from Life Goes On. I can just imagine that this has happened somewhere more than once:

"Man, this food is fucking delicious!" The subtle "swish-swish" of the roof-raising gesture is the only thing besides the clinking of silverware and the slight sound of synapses of other people in the room working overtime trying not to scream at the guy and tell him what a fucking idiot he is for raising the roof at his $9.99 plate of all-you-can-eat shrimp from Red Lobster.

I've asked a very busy woman, the lead actress playing the title role of Annie in the all albino version of the play by the same name, to demonstrate what raising the roof is. Unfortunately, because of my disdain for this gesture, I ran her over with my truck thirty times after she did this.

It's okay, though. She stopped screaming after the third time. I guess now's a good time for a plug. Come see me performing the title role of Annie at the American Albino Playhouse in Los Angeles starting August 20th and ending September 19th.

The worst violation of people who perform this act is when people are at a comedy show and they raise the roof after a joke that they think is funny. If this caught on, then when people really enjoyed a joke, the place would be silent aside from the ruffling of Bomber jackets and gold chains. That's not what a comedian wants. They want laughter, applause, or a kick-ass punching bag.

Over the past year or so there was a lull in the roof-raising phenomenon, but I've noticed over the past month or two, that it has started to seep back into Americana. I hope that I've brought awareness to a serious problem that is sweeping the country. There are a couple charities that I'm associated with that are trying to fight this epidemic. The first charity is The Association for Roof Raising Reduction or ARRR! They're a group of pirates that sail around looking for people to plunder and pillage that they see raising the roof. They don't see very many because they're out in the middle of the ocean, but as soon as they do, somebody's getting a cannonball to the back of the head. The other charity is a group of people who call themselves DAODRTRBWAAGWAOP, Doctors Against Other Doctors Raising The Roof But We Aren't Any Good With Acronyms Or Photoshop.


Both of these are very worthwhile charities that I hope you will support.

Interesting thought of the day:
Baking soda does not, contrary to its name, taste anything like soda or baking. Although baking is more of an intangible idea and action than something that actually contains a flavor, I promise you, it would not taste like that.

I Smell Ice-Cream

I've decided to become an ice-cream man. This decision came quite easily when I figured out how to make a lot of money doing it. I'm going to be the Midnight Ice-Cream Man. I'll come driving down the street in the middle of the night in my awesome black ice-cream truck with flames on the side and sad love songs blaring out into the street. See, I figure that little kids are a decent demographic as they love ice-cream, but little kids don't have disposable income (this is excluding the money that they may have made shamefully "working" for their Uncle Cleetus). People who do have money to spend are the adults who are at home alone in the middle of the night depressed to all hell over the lonely pit of despair and monotony their life has become. They promised themselves they'd stop eating after 7 p.m., but once they hear Foreigner's" I wanna know what love is...I want you to show me..." coming from the streets, their eyes will fill with tears, their heart will fill with sorrow, so their stomach must be filled with some delicious Marble Fudge. It'll be a varitable cornucopia of bathrobes and hair curlers crowded in the streets waiting at my "Make the Bad Feelings Go Away Machine." The name's a little wordy, but it gets the point across.

Today was a good day. I saw a toddler hurt itself, so all is right in the world. I'm positive Jesus loves me.

Interesting thought of the day:
Contrary to popular belief, you are not what you eat--otherwise, I'd be seven homeless men and a pitbull fetus.

Psst....Sizzler....and By The Way, Your Friend Is Filled With Candy, Go Ahead and Cut Him Open

I saw a commercial on TV for everybody's favorite "fancy" restaurant--the only "fancy" restaurant with a spittoon and a free Syphillis test at every table--Sizzler. The commercial was a lot like the commercials that Sizzler always have had, except this time, when they named the restaurant, they whispered it. It was so wistful and enigmatic that it was actually creepy. There were two women standing in the middle of a mall or knitting store or tampon factory or something like that trying to decide where they were going to eat. Then, one of the women hears the word "Sizzler" as if it was delivered on the wind by a dozen pixies on ecstacy. Now, if I'm standing somewhere with somebody, trying to decide where to eat, and I see them start talking and listening to nothing and they suddently respond back eagerly, "Sizzler! We MUST go to Sizzler." I'm not fucking going to Sizzler with them. I'm probably not going to lunch with them or ever talking to them again. And, if I have to go to lunch with them because they're my boss or my mother, I'm going to Soup Plantation or the International House of Water and Baby Food because they probably don't have knives. I don't know what else the voices would tell her, but it probably would involve knives and wouldn't involve giving me a sponge bath. In summary of this long paragraph, don't go out to eat with schizophrenics--even if it's Kevin Costner telling you he has to build a baseball diamond in his corn field.

Also, I went to get a haircut today. There's always something weird about haircuts because there's this forced closeness and intimacy with the woman (I know, men cut hair, too, just not my hair) who's cutting your hair. But, there are situations (for a straight guy or gay woman) that get really awkward. When the woman is standing ridiculously close to you and her boobs are right in your face, you don't know where to look. She has to know that her boobs are close enough for me to actually hear the hair on her nipples scraping against her bra, yet she acts like everything is cool. Worse than this, though, is that I always associate getting my hair cut with women with what I call FVS--Fat Vagina Syndrome. This is where the woman, who seems a little chubby uptop, cinches her waist off so as to create the illusion that she is not as fat as one may think, but instead she is big-busted. But, this illusion is proved to be just that when one's eye wanders below the waistline and sees that their vagina sticks out just as far as their boobs do. This same thing happens to big men as well and it's even worse on them because if they're wearing tight enough pants, it actually looks like they have no genitalia at all. They're like a fat Ken doll without the sweet smell of six-year-old hands all over them.

Interesting thought of the day:
The next time somebody says to you, "What would Jesus do?" hit them in the eyes with a skateboard and tell them "He'd turn the other cheek, motherfucker!" Then run away laughing, cuddling your cool-ass Nash skateboard.

Booyaah! That's all for today. Had somebody new comment last entry, let's see if we can get somebody else new this time. Or, if somebody has access to a website that brings in a lot of traffic, they can go ahead and feature me as their Internet Loser of the Year/Week/Life/Fortnight. Bye, bitches.

Spanish Is Expensive

So, with one quarter of school left until I graduate this fall, I checked my balance on my student account the other day just to make sure my financial aid was taking care of everything. I look at the damn thing and there's a charge for like sixty bucks in late fees. Wondering what I'm being charged for, I call my school and talk to some woman who I'm sure I called right in the middle of her lunchtime masturbation session, because she was a horrible old woman. She tells me that a Spanish Placement test (that I thought I'd test out of, but turns out I'm not as bueno con espanol as I thought) I took wasn't paid for. First, paying for tests is bullshit unless it's a pregnancy test or an AIDS test. Second, I asked the woman at the office when I took the test if financial aid would pay for it automatically and she said yes. So fuck them both. I talked the woman on the phone down from sixty bucks to thirty and a lesson in sweet make-loving like she's never had, but still, thirty bucks for a test that I didn't even fully pass is a horrible scam.

That wasn't particularly funny--I just had to vent. Sorry.

Speaking of AIDS tests, I did take an AIDS test once and, I'm proud to say, I passed it with flying colors. I didn't take the one that most people take, though. I heard that the way most people do it is by giving a blood sample that then goes to a lab where they insert your blood into the vagina of a starfish and, if you have AIDS, the starfish turns into a thousand butterflies which disappear in a cloud of glitter. My source for this information isn't very reliable, however, because I heard this from a homeless man who jabbed an icepick into my eye to "remove the camera." The AIDS test that I took was easy. It went like this:

Question 1
Do you have AIDS or HIV? (Check all that apply)
[]Yes, I have AIDS.
[]Yes, I have HIV.
[]I don't think I have AIDS.
[]I don't think I have HIV.
[]No.

Question 2
Do you like me? (Check one)
[]Yes
[]No
[]Only as a friend.
[]Only as a friend but maybe more than a friend.

I answered 'No' to the first question and 'Only as a friend but maybe more than a friend' to the second. When the woman who gave me the test looked at my answers, she got all red in the face and started whispering to her friend who was sitting right next to her. Then I pulled her hair and ran away screaming, "Jennifer has AIDS!" Her name wasn't Jennifer, I just can't help but yell that out whenever I run anywhere--it's like those people with OCD that flip a lightswitch on and off eighty times whenever they enter a room.

I'm done now. I told myself I wouldn't write as much and try to entertain as little as possible; I think I've done my job.

No comments to my long-ass entry last time. I doubt anybody finished it. So, do what you will, cuntsplosions.

A Rose By Any Other Name!

This entry is going to be short because I realize that I write too much per entry and by the time people get to the end they're either laughing too hard or they're watching something far more entertaining.

I've decided that my name is too boring and I'm going to change my name. In order to spice it up, though, I'm not going to do much to my name. I mean, I'm not going to give myself a whole new name like Sexass Bitchhumper or anything. Even though that's a fucking wicked name, don't get me wrong, that's not what I'm changing it to. I just think that, in order to make myself more exciting, I'm just going to change my name from "Kurt" to "Kurt!"; I may even do all caps there--for emphasis. I just wish I would have thought of this back when I was in Junior High or High School. I would have liked to be sitting in class knowing that a substitute teacher has to call my name, it goes something like this.

Substitute Teacher: Rebecca Clitoris.

Rebecca: Here!

Substitute: Umm, Jason DoucheBag-Zeta-Jones.

Jason: Here!

Substitute: Kurt .

*Silence*

Substitute: Kurt .

*Silence*

Substitute: So Kurt's not here?

Me: Ohh, you're calling me? It's not Kurt.

Substitute: Oh?

Me: It's Kurt!

Substitute: That's what I said.

Me: No it isn't. You said 'Kurt.'

Substitute: I...don't follow.

Me: It's Kurt! With some feeling, motherfucker!

Substitute: Did you just call me...?

Me: Did who?

Substitute: You!

Me: What's my name?

Substitute: Kurt!

Me: There you go. You did it, Mr. Brown.

Substitute: You can call me by my first name.

(I always loved substitute teachers that did this)

Me: Cool. What is it?

Substitute: Motherfucker. That's why I thought it was weird that you already knew my name.

Me: Your name is Motherfucker Brown?

Substitute: Yeah, I changed it from Kurt when I was in High School.

Things like that are fun to type because I have no idea where they're going when I start them.

I just want to let the affiliates know that this entry is going to go long. I have too much more I want to say on the subject of names. So, already, I'm breaking my own damn rules that I made about quantity over quality.

Another thing I'd do to change my name is give myself a suffix or prefix that adds something badass that people would have to call me. The first thing I would do is change my first name to Mister so that when people are being formal with me they have to call me Mister Mister. As soon as they'd do that I'd just start singing, "Take....these broken wings....and learn to fly again, and learn to live so free." But I'd really like to give myself a prefix like "The legendary" or "World Renowned Walrus Slayer." It would suck to have to fill my name out in things where there's a limited amount of space (especially like the damn SATs where you have to fill in the corresponding bubbles with the letters--fuck that shit), but it would be worth it to have my name called out at the DMV to renew my Driver's License. "Umm, could 'The Moving, Grooving, 170-pound Sex Machine Supreme Kurt' please come to the counter to get his new License photo taken please?" Then I'd look around all coy and walk up there with my gangsta walk and be like, "You rang, ho?" I'm so damn smooth.

This works the other way with suffixes as well. This will be the second of two scenes that you can print out and perform with your friends or for your local church.

I'd be sitting on the Witness Stand (oxymoronic action in itself) in court.

Lawyer: State your full name for the record please.

Me: Kurt ...

Lawyer: Okay, Mr. , I...

Me: I wasn't finished.

Lawyer: Oh. Please, continue. Your full name for the record.

Me: Kurt Can Beat Up Vampires and Has Totally Driven a Monster Truck Over Like A Hundred Cars Before and Is Pretty Sure That There Were Old People Or Maybe Some Dolphins Inside of Them And He Doesn't Care.

I don't have a fun ending for that one like I did the other one, but the fun part about performing these with your friends is that you can improvise the ending; that's why I left it open.

And, finally, here's a fun little story about how bad handwriting and the California education system can combine to make one of life's supposedly greatest moments into one of its most ridiculous and embarassing.

As I've mentioned before, my last name is mispronounced probably 95% of the time and it's only six letters. It's pronounced Duh-gun, not Doo-gun (not to be confused with an invention I'm working on). Well, at my High School Graduation, we were told to write our name out phonetically on a card and hand it to the woman who was announcing them. I know that my handwriting is horribly shitty so I concentrated on getting my last name perfectly legible--to me. I handed the card to the woman with confidence as I got ready to stride onto stage and accept life's passage into adulthood in the form of a piece of cardboard with my name written on it in computer caligraphy. I see her look down at the card and look up at the crowd with a smile on her face (that soon would fade as I would actually pluck both of her eyes from her face and swallow them whole when she mispronounces my name). She beams, "Kurt Dumb Gun." The crowd smatters (I think I just verbed the word 'smattering'--and now 'verb') with applause and a few people yelling back at her pronouncing my name correctly. I corrected it for her and made my march across the stage--leaving high school the way I had entered it: Awkward, embarassed, and covered in a strange woman's blood.

Interesting thought of the day:
Broken glass, when used as a spermacide, drastically reduces the possibility that a woman will become pregnant, but drastically increases the possibility of a vagina filled with glass (another phrase you'll have to put in google in a week or so).

Drop some comments about whatever you want and don't be too disappointed that I already went back on my word. Just think of me as your step-dad who "Really loves your momma and won't ever hit her again." Or email me.

Scent of a Urine!

Hoohah! This entire entry is going to be about pee, specifically my own pee, so if you don't like pee, are allergic, addicted and don't want the temptations, or have a personal vendetta against pee because it clubbed your grandmother in the knee hours before the ice skating championships, you'll probably want to skip this one.

There are certain things that I eat that make my pee smell like said item. For instance, whenever I eat cereal that's like Honey Smacks or Super Golden Crisp, when I pee later that day, I'm reminded all over again of what I had for breakfast. I thought that the peepee chute and the poopoo chute were separate, so this confuses me. Why would something that's getting turned into my poop emit its beautiful, sugary odor out of my flesh-pipe? My stomach should not grumble upon smelling my own urine, yet it does. But, don't worry, it doesn't taste a thing like what I had for breakfast. It's just really salty and hot--like a latino woman. I'd much prefer if when I ate Corn Pops that that would mean later on that day a latino woman would spew forth from my wiener. Not so much because I'd "totally do her"--because I wouldn't, she's a human that came from my penis, I don't trust her--but because it would make me feel like I was a bottle that a genie came from. Lord knows I rub that thing enough. Yay for masturbation jokes. My penis is a mexican genie's lamp. I'll bet in like a week if you put that phrase into google, my site will be the only one that comes up.

Also, as I discovered a week or two ago, if you put "Whoopi Goldberg's butthole" into google, my site is the only one that comes up. I'd like to think that my entire audience is composed of people who put that phrase into google and were initially upset that there were no photos of the Diva's balloon knot from Sister Act, Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit, and Eddie. Then, once they gave in to the fact that they would not be finding the holy graille of Whoopi-porn, they stayed for the constant pedophile, sodomy and retard jokes.

I don't know how many of my tens of readers have taken those big-ass, smelly, horse-sized multi-vitamins, but I have, and they messed up my urinary tract something wicked. I guess it wasn't my urinary tract so much as the color, scent and sometimes even the texture of my urine. It turned my pee into a radioactive yellow. This, I thought, was cool on one hand because I felt like I was a Superhero who, after a terrible accident in the bathroom of the nuclear power plant where he worked, was stricken with the superpower of radioactive urine that doesn't actually hurt his foes, but kind of grosses them out a little. But, also, any time that my urine isn't the normal, crimson red that it usually is, it's a little nerve-wracking. This gave me an idea, though. I thought of patenting an item that could change the properties of one's urine. There could be the color-changing line that does just what it sounds like. It turns you into a black person. No. That doesn't make sense (but it did in Soul Man). There'd be the traditional, primary colors, but then there'd also be the mood changing urine pills and the patriotic, Red, White, and Blue pack that, when urinated in the right sequence, forms an exact replica of the U.S. flag. Also, another thing that has me pretty stoked about my urine changers, or, as I've decided to call them, "The Pee Dazzlers," is the one that changes the textures of one's urine. There are a few of these. One of them turns your urine into a thick, stew-like consistency (with your choice of soup flavor: Clam Chowder (the Red and the White) and Beef and Onion are in the testing stages). Another will make your urine come out like Silly String so, you too, can feel like Spider-Man, if only in the confines of your sad, lonely, bacteria-laden bathroom. But, finally, the one that has me most excited, is the pill that will change your urine into a steam. Imagine being able to enter a room in a cloud of fog. It's like carrying your own personal fog machine with you wherever you go, except this fog smells like breakfast! Nobody take that! I'm using it as the slogan.

Interesting thought of the day:
The remote control was invented by a man who had run out of things to throw at his wife so she would get up and change the channel. By sheer coincidence, the thing would have worked to change the channel on his TV. He didn't discover this soon enough, however, as he bludgeoned his wife to death with it for not keeping Double A batteries around the house.

I ran out of slightly clever for the night, so please comment, especially if you're new (but the older folks feel free as well). Or, I'll leave my email for all those who came looking for Whoopi Goldberg's butthole and are disappointed. I'll send you pics from my personal collection.

A Village of Supremacists!

The past two days I've seen two movies, if you do the math longhand, you'll come to find out that that's an average of almost one movie per day. It's close, but I think I'm rounding somewhere to get that number--it's not exact. I'm going to talk about the movies, but I'll try to steer clear of spoiling it for you (Bruce Willis is dead the whole time!!).

Das Village

In M. Night Shyamalan's fourth movie that's not a shitty movie that involves Rosie O'Donnell as a homely nun who plays baseball (I'm just guessing from the picture on the box, I had my fill of Rosie O'Donnell as a lesbian who plays baseball with A League of Their Own), Night (who I will refrain from referring to as Shamalamadingdong or anything like that because it's been beaten to death worse than Laci Peterson and her heathen baby) takes Joaquin Phoenix and Opie's daughter and drops them in the middle of a town that's full of Amish people and William Hurt's grizzly attitude and voice.

It's hard to talk about this movie without giving a lot away, so I'm going to make stuff up that doesn't really happen in the movie and review that. Let's just say that I've read reviews of The Village and it wasn't reviewed that great. I enjoyed it, but it's not one of those movies that you can watch over again like The Sixth Sense or The He-Man movie! I was so in love with the He-Man cartoon when I was a kid, I think I experienced my first man-erection when I saw this movie in the theaters. Anyway, in the pretend world of what happens in the movie, Joaquin Phoenix, who is a known necrophiliac, gets caught building a steam-powered robot without permission of the rest of the village. The village people hate technology and cast Joaquin and his robot out of the village (now, here I'm referring to the people that live in the village in the movie, not the music group, but, it is a little-known fact that the Village People also hate technology). Opie's daughter decides that she's leaving and that she's in love with Joaquin because she saw him in Signs so she's going to hunt him down in the woods. But, the woods are said to be haunted by other known necrophiliacs and she'll never get out of there alive. Then, at the end of the movie, Joaquin and Opie-ette are embracing in the center of the village after they've murdered everybody else and Joaquin has sodomized each and every one of them while singing "Let's Get it Started" by The Black Eyed Peas. Now, I have to say that this took me out of the movie because how would he know this song? They must have tried to cash in on the success of the song so they decided to screw realism and use it anyway. But, the big twist at the end is that, while you thought that the robot was just a robot, it turns out that he's the only real thing there and he built Joaquin and Tom Bosley's granddaughter as his own robots because he really liked Gladiator and Happy Days. And, the only thing that robots know how to do is build people-robots that sodomize other dead people-robots; it's like their fuel. I remember at this part just shaking my head thinking, Knight, you've done it again, you clever bastard. There's one final twist at the end that I won't give away here, but let's just say it involves a pie-eating contest, twenty sequential Michigan license plates, and a macaroni necklace. I probably gave too much away right there; it's pretty easy to figure out.

Supreme Supremacy and Redundant Redundancy!

Matt Damon needs to always play a guy who's pissed off about stuff but doesn't really show it until he totally punches a guy in the throat before you can even blink. It's like Matt Damon is two people: He's a regular guy who wears a lot of sweaters, but then he's also this totally awesome killing machine that won't hesitate to toe-punch a woman in the vagina.

Matt Damon is Jason Bourne, a...born...killing machine. You see what I did there? With the words and the puns? Man, I'm on fire like that kid David whose dad hated the way he slept so he threw gas and a match on him in his sleep. He's back and he's mad because people won't stop following him and making him be wicked cool in public by karate chopping guys in the eyes while driving a rickshaw. I don't know why he's mad at people for making him show off in public; maybe he's just trying to be modest in front of his girlfriend. If I could stop bullets with my mind like he can, I'd show it off all the time. Maybe Ben Affleck asked him to stop being so cool so people would go see more of his movies like Forces of Nature and Matt's trying to help him out.

Anyway, there's lots of cool car chases and shaky cameras that make it seem like you're really there, videotaping it, and you have Parkinson's. I love feeling like a character in the movie--especially when I get to be Michael J. Fox. I think the people around me got mad because I kept yelling at the screen, "Doc, you're telling me you built a time machine out of a Delorean?"

In all seriousness, there was a woman behind me who thought her kids would really love to see an action movie at two o'clock in the afternoon so she just had to take all three of them with her while she sat there fantasizing about how Matt Damon would take her away from her shitty, scroungy-ass kids. For the most part, the kids were fine, but about seventeen twentyfourths of the way through the film, the little boy, who was probably 6 or 12 or 9, decided that he was hungry. Again, this would have been fine with me if the kid behind me ate. I'm all for kids eating once every couple of days. The bad part, though, was that the woman snuck some food in--again, I don't care, theater shit's expensive--but she snuck it in in the LOUDEST GODDAMN PLASTIC BAG ON THE PLANET. And she couldn't just take the shit out of the bag and throw the bag on the floor. No! I'm pretty sure she was trying to get all of the wrinkles out of the bag because it sounded like somebody behind me was rolling around in a big-ass pile of leaves in my ear. I'm not one to yell at people at movie theaters (though I do have a story about this that I'll probably talk about some time in the future), but I turned around, stabbed the kid in the throat like my new idol Matt Damon, and kept watching the movie. The bag stopped making noise.

Here are my ratings for the two movies:
The Village gets yellow and The Bourne Supremacy gets a Trapper Keeper with a unicorn on the front.

Word of advice of the day:
When people say "I could care less," please end their life right there with whatever means necessary because they don't deserve to speak anymore. Or you can calmly explain to them that it's "I couldn't care less." I prefer doing the first one because I've looked into it and killing somebody is completely legal if the person who is killed is a moron. It's like a Citizen's arrest but with murder.

Okay, I've given you all time to bring your friends here, now they must comment or I will start docking your pay. Remember, you get to punch them in the face when you tell them about my website; how could this deal get any sweeter? I'll tell you how. If somebody comes here and comments saying that somebody referred them here, I'll give both the referrer and the referree (the one who is referred, not the person who always calls me for travelling--TWO STEPS, BITCH) a very rare strain of whatever STD they want. I'm not like most people with STDs, I've become so used to them that I can pick and choose which ones I would like to give to people. I don't want to brag or anything, but I've got Bacterial Vaginosis--guys normally can't even get this. It's like Pokemon--Collect them all! Or you can email me and tell me you're going to end my current unemployment.