Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Time After Time!

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what they sent me:

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

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

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

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

Sunday, November 28, 2004

The "Too Much Pumpkin Pie" Shits!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Laotian's Eleven (minus five)!

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

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

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

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

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

Me in my lucky blue suit.

Sunday, November 21, 2004

Black People Hate Everybody!

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

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

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

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

Friday, November 19, 2004

Black People Hate Each Other!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Duck, Duck, Goose!

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

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

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

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

A pasta-tute.

Hell yeah.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Jesus dies again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, November 12, 2004

Sweet Yassy Molassy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Pumps and the Bumps!

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

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

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

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

I feel like Encyclopedia Brown by solving that mystery.

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

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

Sunday, November 07, 2004

Bruise Clues!

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

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

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

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


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

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

Wednesday, November 03, 2004


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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Fuck Florida! Fuck Ohio!

I quit America.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interesting thought of the day:

Monday, November 01, 2004

Election Eve!

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

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

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

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

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