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.

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