Sunday, October 31, 2004

If I Could Turn Back Time...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanna go ride bikes?

Friday, October 29, 2004

Hot Shot: Part Douche

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much does a zero in this area hurt?

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

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

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Syphilitic Paper Cuts!

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

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

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

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

Monday, October 25, 2004


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

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

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

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

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Bedtime Story!

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

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

The Bastard Frog

by Shel Silverstein (or me, whatever)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End.

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

Monday, October 18, 2004

Los Calcetines Rojos!

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

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

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

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

Sunday, October 17, 2004

Poor Red Sox!

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

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

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

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

Friday, October 15, 2004


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

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

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

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Eye Eye, Captain!

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, October 10, 2004

I'm a Horrible Bastard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, October 06, 2004


Beyonce will be performing that song, "Debateylicious," with P. Diddy's "Vote or Die" tour coming soon to a college campus near you.

The Vice-Presidential debate was tonight and, once again, I had class, so I taped the shit and watched it when I got home. I had a Spanish test tonight, too, that I rushed through because I knew that as soon as I was done I could go home and get to watching the debate. I really don't know why I don't have a girlfriend.

Dick Cheney was, on numerous occasions, a split second from shedding his human skin and materializing before everyone in his true form, as the cloven-hoofed Demonlord of the Underworld--but he didn't. I kept expecting John Edwards to turn his head to look at the audience for a moment, and turn back toward Dick Cheney who, in that split second, had managed to remove John Edwards's trachea with his mouth, his face covered in the blood of the pure North Carolina Senator. "It's like drinking the blood of Jesus and a baby seal," Cheney would say, half-surprised that the audience has reacted so negatively to his action.

Of course, I'm biased, so I think John Edwards won the debate because Dick Cheney kept repeating stuff that wasn't true or completely out of context. John Edwards had a lot of things to say (Haliburton, Saddam-9/11 connection) that Cheney couldn't even respond to. The coolest thing was that Cheney kept saying, "I don't know where to start," when talking about how he would rebut an Edwards statement. This is what's called, in debate terms, having nothing to say and buying time while you think.

Anyway, the woman who moderated the debate, the woman who also used to host Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego, sucked. Her questions weren't anything special, but one of her questions was just retarded. She asked the candidates to answer without using their runningmate's name in the response. What kind of shitty-ass improv game was she trying to start? She may as well have said, "Okay, Vice-President Cheney, you're a genie and, Senator Edwards, you're a gas-station attendant. Also, you can only talk in questions. And, GO!"

It's like the kind of games I play with myself to make life more interesting. Like the game where I wake up in the middle of the night and have to go to the bathroom but I can't turn the light on. The game is to time myself to see how long it is from the time I start peeing, to the time it actually starts hitting water. Sometimes this can go on for minutes.

Quick answer to a question somebody had in the previous post: I used the Scooby Doo picture because I made a Scooby Doo reference ("...if it weren't for you pesky kids"). I'd never put a picture up without it having some sort of context.

Rodney Dangerfield died today. In anticipation of shitty news headlines everywhere, how many will use the word "Respect" in some form of another in the title? The answer: All of them. Fuck writers. I can't believe Rodney Dangerfield died. It seems like just yesterday he was IN A FUCKING COMA FOR WEEKS. Jesus, people. Quit acting like these things are such a surprise. Not since Pope John Paul's death in the upcoming month will the world be so surprised to hear of somebody struck down in the prime of their youth. Pope John Paul's death is more overdue than the copy of "God, Are You There? It's Me, Margaret" that I've had on my nightstand since I was 10.

Interesting thought of the day:
You can definitely get AIDS by eating a bottle of pills marked "AIDS pills--Don't Eat! We're not even sure why we make these!"

Tuesday, October 05, 2004


In what's probably one of the best stories of the year, a retarded boy tried to murder his teacher by pushing her out of a window in Ohio. When his teacher wouldn't let him get out of the third floor window where another student had tossed a pencil by placing her body in the window frame, the boy said, "Then I will throw you out the window!" and proceeded to try to push her. I have a tough time believing this story because if a retarded kid wants to move something, he'll do it. They're strong like ants. I once saw a retarded child move an entire house because he saw a kitty crawl beneath it.

The X Prize has been won by Burt Rutan and Paul Allen. This is not the famous comedy duo of the early 1900's, Rutan and Allen, known for their hilarious Vaudeville routines about the turn of the century's newest fad, necrophilia. No, these are two rich guys who wanted to fly into space. They're like that guy from 'N Sync without all the sucking so hard. They won $10 million for being privately funded and getting a manned aircraft to fly into space two times within two weeks or something like that. Truth is, I'm too lazy to actually read exactly what it's about, but I know that there was a collective achieving of erections by dorks all around the world when this news was announced. Star Wars pillowcases everywhere were ruined in unison when the aftereffects of an intellectually-induced erection-turned-pillow-humping session were "realized" all over Boba Fett's jetpack.

The Vice-Presidential debates are going to be held tomorrow night in Cleveland. I think that John Edwards could easily win the debate if he plays the September Eleventh card. All he has to do is say to Cheney:

"Somebody's coming through, his name starts with a J. He says that he died in the Twin Towers on September Eleventh and it's all Dick Cheney and George W. Bush's fault. If they're re-elected, God says that everybody who died on September Eleventh will go to Hell. "
There would be nothing Cheney could say because John Edwards can totally talk to dead people. All Cheney does is smell like one. Interestingly enough, scientists have found exactly what that smell is. It's a combination of CamphoPhenique, Baby Powder, Polident, and old balls. It's mostly old balls. If they made an ingredients list, that would have to go first.

Finally, Mt. St. Helens is a big, fat liar and is never going to overflow and spill its warm, sugary goodness onto the lucky Washington residents below. People are under the misconception that the lava only kills, but, I'll tell you one thing, nobody's ever tried it on some Triple Dipple Fudge ice cream. It's like really hot fudge--that may kill you. I don't even think it's a real volcano, but, instead, somebody bought a lot of dry ice and took it to the top of a mountain in order to scare away all the townspeople so they could dig up some treasure that's supposed to be buried there. And he would have gotten away with it if it weren't for those pesky kids.

Excerpt from an old Rutan & Allen routine:

Say, Allen, did ya hear about that new morgue that opened up down the block?

I sure did! It's called Pleasant Memories Mortuary, isn't it?

That it is, old friend of friends! But they should call it Pleasant Mammaries! Yayaya!

(Music and a lot of stepping sideways quickly follow until music stops)

Wow, old chum. Who'd have thought that you like to make love to dead people?

Make love? Who said anything about making love? The best thing about these dead dames is that they don't make you put a ring on their finger. Hell, I wouldn't even wear a condom if it weren't for all the maggots!

(More music and stepping sideways as the curtains close and the entire crowd begins to weep silently.)

Interesting thought of the day:
If you're walking next to people and you're taking up the entire width of the sidewalk, chances are there are people behind you wanting to pass your slow ass--SO FUCKING MOVE.*

*This message is brought to you by me and directed toward those slow whores moseying to class in front of me this morning.

Saturday, October 02, 2004

Allah La La La Bamba!

This is a long and serious one. Brace yourselves.

One of my devoted readers, Whore, has asked on a couple of posts now, whether or not, when I said, "I pray to Allah every day..." if I was being serious. There's the short, direct answer, No. But that's no fun. So, I'll alienate probably close to everybody that reads this thing, but I'll explain why I don't pray to Allah or God or Vishnu or Zeus or whatever you believe in.

The comedian David Cross shares a lot of my sentiments in regards to religion, so if you want to hear somebody a lot funnier and a lot balder than I am explain this to you, get his CD, Shut Up You Fucking Baby.

I was talking with a friend of mine about people praying the other day. He was talking about how he was at some Bible Study and, at the end, people were praying for things. At first, he said, it was fine. Somebody prayed for somebody they knew who had cancer or something. Whatever, that's harmless. Then, the right-wing, brainwashed, "The Bible is always right" attitude started to come out. Somebody was praying that the gay people would stop "choosing" to be gay and, instead, find the Lord. Holy shit. How self-righteous and backward is that? Somebody else is doing something (that they're born into--to say they choose it is just fucking stupid--"I'm going to choose to maybe get my ass kicked for expressing my love for another human being that happens to be the same sex as me") that doesn't have any sort of impact on you at all, but just because your magical book might say that it isn't right, then that person will definitely be going to hell? It's so close-minded, but I can even forgive that because at least, in a way, this person is caring about other people. But then it got really strange. People started praying for things. Not abstract things like for somebody to get over cancer or world peace, but actual, tangible, material things. Some guy wanted the group to pray for him so that he could get a laptop computer. Yeah, I'm sure that that's high on god's priority list--to make sure that you can play minesweeper on an airplane right before you die. He said a few people asked for material possessions. I'm pretty sure that if god did exist, there's no way he'd be like your rich uncle you see once a year who always gives you a present that's way better than anything your parents give you, thus making your parents realize that their sad life is nothing compared to Uncle Chad's. God is not a rich uncle.

To me, believing that the world was created by some being with super powers, like a giant Harry Potter in the sky, is absolutely ridiculous. If somebody were to honestly tell you that they believed in Zeus and Hera and all the Greek Gods, you'd laugh at them and say that they were crazy. Why is it, then, that when somebody says that they believe in god (basically an amalgamation of the Greek Gods), they aren't laughed at either? This is only because it's the widely accepted (in the religions of the United States anyway) idea pertaining to how people got here. Science has shown that the Big Bang could have easily, and most logically, created the Universe, but, instead, people choose to think that there's some fucking wizard who just snapped his fingers and made something. People truly believe that the type of shit that happens on Bewitched is the way that the world was created. God is not Samantha Stevens.

Now, for most people, the idea of how we got here isn't why they are religious. For the majority of people, they hide in religion because they're afraid of what happens when they die. What are the consequences of the shit that they do while they're "on earth?" A lot of people suddenly "find" religion (jesus, I'm using a lot of quotation marks--understand I'm being facetious when I'm using them, I'm not sporadically quoting somebody) when they have done something horrible in their life and they want to feel better about it. This is why religion is so prominent in prisons, drug rehab centers, and in the mind of the Vietnamese prostitute lying in my bed the morning after (I get the overnight prostitutes; that's right I'm a big spender, beeeotches). A lot of people are so afraid of what a shitty human being they actually are, and they hate themselves for it, that they decide the only way they can feel better about how fucking horrible they are is by hiding all their problems in one place where it's okay to be fucked up because there's this being who will love you unconditionally. How convenient, huh? The greater part about this is that death, something normally feared for its uncertainty, is now something that's "even better than life." God is not Walt Disney.

Dude, I heard that in Heaven that, like, all you have to do is think about what kind of Slurpee you want and you'll have one, like, instantly. No matter what flavor. Seriously! God's so fucking awesome! Let's go to the child molestation booth!--Some fictitious Christian moron

One of the worst aspects of religious people are those that try to push their beliefs on somebody else. There's this guy that I used to work with who was really religious. Whenever he would bring the subject of religion up, I would try to leave. See, I try to be really non-confrontational about religion because people are entitled to believe what they want--they're just wrong. Well, this guy always talked about it and talked about how I should read the Bible (which I've read enough of to know that it's like goddamn Aesop's Fables but without animals). Then, when I'd explain to him that I won't be reading it, he'd say stuff like, "I'll pray for you." This is such a condescending statement. They can think it to themselves, write it on their John 3:16 post-it note, but to tell somebody that is basically saying, "Well, you don't believe what I do, so you're going to burn in hell for it. But I'll try to talk to god, I'm in good with him, and see what I can do for you." I can't reply, "Well, I won't pray for you" because it comes off smarmy and elitist when, in actuality, that's exactly what I'm going to do, I'm just letting them know, just as they let me know. What they don't realize is that they're actually being elitist, self-important, and "holier than thou" when they say things like that. God is not Bill O'Reilly.

See, it comes down to the question of logic versus believing that the Lord of the Rings actually happened. That's how far-fetched religion is. It may as well involve dragons, orcs and shit. Because it has no basis in reality. Those who believe in religion are those who use it as a crutch to make themselves feel better about their position in life. Whether it's to pick themselves up after murdering somebody and ruining their life or they're on their deathbed and need to feel comfortable about what's on "the other side," it's there to fill that spot in their brain that can't comprehend something. I'm not saying finding religion in these situations is bad, if it helps somebody be a better person, that's great, but what I'm saying is that people shouldn't need to be told not to be a shitty person and, if somebody's dying, whether or not they believe in God, they're still going to die and they're still going to the same nothingness that everybody goes to (it's a sad thought to those that can't handle it). God is not a get-out-of-jail-free card.

The Bible, the object held in such high regard by so many Christians, is about as useful as a pogo stick to Christopher Reeve. The U.S. Constitution, something 228 years old, has been amended 27 times and still, a lot of the writing and ideas are outdated. The Bible is around 1900 years old yet the same things remain within it. The only things that change are the translations. Doesn't it seem wrong that there haven't been any changes to the ideas expressed within the Bible? Are these people saying that we, as humans, haven't evolved morally and ideologically in two thousand years? It's actually scary to think that these people, who follow something written that long ago, are in charge of the country right now. If I buy the wrong edition of a book for a science class I have, there's the possibility that that information could be outdated even though it was only written a year ago. You're trying to tell me that in two thousand years nothing has changed? Yeah, I'm talking to you! Fuck you, buddy! To put it less eloquently (I think I'm in the negatives on eloquence), that's just retarded. God is not Christopher Burke (Corky from Life Goes On).

Now that I'm the only person left that will actually read this thing, because people are so goddamn sensitive about religion, I'm anxious to see what I'm going to talk about next. I think I'll talk about my undying love for Satan since everybody knows that all atheists are in bed with Satan. So, next entry will just be me scrawling pentagrams on my computer while chanting about Beelzebub's power over myself and the world.

Made-up aphorism of the day:
The brain is like a band-aid. They both help things heal quicker, but sting like a sonofabitch when you remove them.

Friday, October 01, 2004

That's Interesting!

Something occured to me today while in my Latin film studies class. Every classroom has the guy who always chimes in with the most inane, ridiculous, and completely irrelevant comments. There have been two of these guys in my classes the past couple years and, without fail, one of them is always in one of my classes every quarter.

The first guy is this guy with a complexion like wet Koosh ball who always rides his scooter to class. He was most prominent in one of my creative writing classes where he would ask the most retarded questions about the readings. For example, in the Hemingway story, "Hills Like White Elephants," it's about this couple at a train station and a woman is contemplating getting an abortion, though it's never actually said. The guy would actually ask a question like, "Why are the hills like white elephants? I don't get it? Is it because there are lots of peanuts on the hills or an Indian guy is riding them? I don't understand." I wanted to crosscheck him whenever he started to speak. He wouldn't ask a question to be funny, he'd ask the question because he was a fucking moron.

Worse, however, is this one guy with facial hair that hasn't been seen since Tutankhamen (I spelled this right the first time, motherfuckas!) who had a voice like if he coughed too hard, a tablespoon of semen would end up on his shirt. Though he had a voice like a two-hour marathon of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," his sexuality was ambiguous. Anyway, the aspect of this guy's personality that made me want to slam an iron on the "Polyester" setting into his neck was how he would always talk in class and never make any sense. It's like he saw somebody actually make a fucking point once and so he thinks now he can do it. Every professor I ever had hated the kid but was never able to admit it. Once, however, this little Pharoah fell asleep in class and somebody pointed it out and the professor said to just let him sleep. Everybody laughed when they realized that even professors are allowed to have hate in their heart.

The point of this post is because something funny happened today in class with a new guy that has taken the place of these previous two gentlemen. I've realized the code language that professors use when they hate a student. We were talking about the opening scene of Orson Welles' A Touch of Evil and the guy raised his hand and made some long-winded point about nothing in particular that made any sort of sense. The professor simply replied by saying, "Oh. I'd never thought of it that way." She then quickly picked another person to erase the stink of stupid in the room. This stink would follow me home, however, and make its way into this very post.

I apologize.

Interesting thought of the day:
Cereal companies don't actually make the items that they advertise on their boxes that cost a certain amount of UPC symbols because nobody ever fucking sends those things in. UPC symbols are the lazy man's kryptonite.