Hep Cat!

As has probably come to be pretty evident, I'm quite a catch in the relationship department. Because of this, from time to time friends of mine have tried to set me up with different women. This has rarely worked out, but when it does, it's fine. I'm not somebody to turn down a shot at free vagina. Coincidentally, "A Shot at Free Vagina" is the name of a shooting gallery at my neighborhood porn store. At least it's a wall of rubber vaginas that I call a shooting gallery. Whatever.

Well, a friend of mine recently said that there was a girl that was really cute that he wanted to set me up with. He described her, physically (I mean that he described what she looked like, not that we were playing a game of charades), to me, and everything sounded fantastic. I was kind of excited about the idea of meeting this girl. I wasn't too worried about her finding me attractive since, as is obvious, chicks dig a man in a Mexican wrestling mask.

But, like everything in my life, there was a little caveat attached to the end of this idea. He informed me that the girl who I may be meeting sort of had a problem. No, she wasn't retarded (as we know, that's no problem with me), and, no, she didn't used to be a man (again, probably not a problem with me). He kind of snuck in the fact at the very end of the conversation that this girl, this really cute girl, kind of had a case of Hepatitis C. And also, that she got this Hepatitis C because she used to be a drug addict. Oh, and one more thing, that I didn't really need to worry about her having Hepatitis C for long because she asked Jesus to get rid of it for her, so now it was just a matter of time until it was all cleared up. Because Jesus is just like a box boy at a supermarket. Some kid got into a box of Hepatitis C in the store, "Cletus, clean-up on aisle six please. It's the Hepatitis again!"

Although she sounds like quite the catch, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to pass on this situation. Even somebody as shallow as my ass couldn't look past a former junkie with Hep C and a case of Jesus Jonesing (not the disease where people break into "Right Here, Right Now" at any moment, it's one's constant jonesing for Jesus), just for a chance at maybe bumping uglies with a cute girl. Maybe it's because I'm selfish and I actually enjoy having a functioning liver. What a fucking dick I am.

On a completely different note, I found out yesterday that I've been a grumpy dick for a long time. I was cleaning out a bunch of shit in my room--getting rid of the mounds of unnecessary crap that a pack rat like myself accumulates--when I ran across a journal that I had to write when I was in sixth grade. This was an ongoing journal, a dialogue of sorts, that we maintained with the teacher. She would write back and respond to things that we wrote. Well, I was writing about how excited I was to turn twelve because, in my house, that meant I could babysit (Jesus Christ, I was so goddamn gay). Then, in a later entry, I wrote about how I was glad that my mom let me babysit my younger brother as a trial run because it taught me how much I hated kids. I even used the word hated. I was so proud of the prepubescent me because I had always wondered when I began to become such a rock-solid piece of evil crap and now I know: the sixth grade. There are still bits of childish innocence interspersed throughout, but there is an occasional sentence where I may as well have been writing about how much I wanted to rape a coma victim.

Interesting thought of the day:
Do people with Tourette's Syndrome ever say stuff that even surprises them? "Did I just say, 'I want to fuck a lifeboat?' What the hell is wrong with me?"

My TiVo Thinks I Hate Jesus!

For Christmas I got a TiVo from my older brother. He recently switched jobs and he's making crazy money. Not that he's well paid, he works at a printing press where they create funds to be used in Mental Institutions. Puns are fun and educational.

Well, I have been getting acquainted with my newly-acquired TiVo and he probably hates me by now. See, TiVo tries to learn what you like to watch so it suggests and records things that it thinks you will like. The first day I got it was Christmas and the History Channel was showing a bunch of stuff about religion. I like watching this stuff because it's interesting. I told TiVo that I wanted to record this thing I saw a commercial for about people's ever-changing beliefs in God and Hell that was supposed to be on the next day.

I woke up the next morning and, to my surprise, TiVo decided that, since I wanted those other things, I'd probably really enjoy everything on PAX, some other Jesus network, and all of the Sunday morning church services. So I went through the list deleting everything and giving it three thumbs down (this is something that you do through TiVo, I wasn't standing in my room booing the television using both my hands and the pickled thumb of Betsy Ross--another awesome Christmas present, thanks, Uncle Rick!). Now I think I've probably confused the shit out of my TiVo. Maybe it thinks I had a dream that night where Jesus and the disciples raped me so I could no longer stand the thought of religion. I want to explain to my TiVo that this isn't the case--I've always hated Jesus--but I don't know how. I feel like I should let it sympathy tape something for me just so it doesn't judge me so harshly. I think I'll tell it to tape Benny Hinn since that's always hilarious. I love when people get "bowled over" by the power of Christ. I can't believe people actually buy that shit. I've actually seen him "throw" heals, baseball style, at people. Sofa king we todd did (if you don't get that, read it slowly and/or say it out loud to your gay uncle). I've also seen him go down a line of people touching them all as they fall over like goddamn dominoes. The only thing that would have made that better is if he pulled an Ice Cube from Boyz in the Hood and said, "Domino, motherfucker," after he did it. Then he primps his Jerry curl.

Poor Jerry. He had an entire hairstyle named after him and it's horrible. Well, I was just going through google looking for a picture of Ice Cube with a Jerry Curl and found a picture of two guys making out. Thanks, internet! So forget about going off on that tangent. I know a picture of an ice cube melting from some eighty-year-old amputee's butthole is two clicks away, so I'll pass.

In a few days I've got to start looking for a job and I'm starting to worry my pretty little head off. I need to find a job writing somewhere and that's going to be hard because almost every writing sample I have has something that most working environments would deem inappropriate; I sign all my writings by spraying it with my semen. I could go for that editing job at "Semen Calligraphy Weekly," but I don't want to get pigeonholed. In spellchecking the word calligraphy, I found a hole in the internet. If you dare, check out what happens when you misspell calligraphy at dictionary.com. I spent forty-five minutes wondering if I had spelled it right. By the way, a lot of people actually misspell the word 'misspell.' Put that in a song, Alanis.

Interesting thought of the day:
Rub raw bacon on public toilet seats and then carry it with you wherever you go. It works great as a breath freshener.

A Very Atheistic Christmas!

Hello boys and girls! Would you like to hear the real story of Christmas? Of course you would. Hang on tight. It's about to get jolly as a motherfucker in this bitch!

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Just one thing was stirring, a man holding a blouse.
Some stockings were hung by the chimney with care
As the man sniffed the blouse and humped a pillow in the bare.

The children were nestled all snug in their bed
And you would be, too, if you had been dead.
The man used a kerchief and dried off his sack
And just settled down for a long winter's nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window he flew like a flash,
Grabbed a copy of his manifesto, a knife, and Steve Nash*.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen whore,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the blood and the gore.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, filled with murder and fear.

With a little old driver, bright red and masturbatin'
He knew in a moment it was his Overlord, Satan.
More rapid than eagles his demons they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Marcus! now, Steven! now, Dashel and Vincent!
On, Hopscotch! on, Laser! On Pencil and Cake!"
The moment those names didn't rhyme, he was shocked,
But the names always rhyme in this storybook schlock.

At least they all used to--back when he was seven,
Back when there was Santa, the Toothfairy, and Heaven.
Now there were bills, divorce, and his kids,
Who, upstairs, had suffered a late case of SIDS.

Just then, in a twinkling, he heard on the roof,
The SWAT team and a helicopter appear in a poof.
"Come out with your hands up! We've got you surrounded!"
They actually say that? He thought, astounded.

He quickly dressed all in fur, and threw out his knife,
But his clothes were all tarnished with brain, blood, and wife.
"I've got to do something," he said in a fright.
"Wait. I'll probably get off. After all, I am white."

Oh, his eyes--how they twinkled that sad, vacant stare,
His cheeks were like doughnuts, his nose an eclair.
His thin lips were grimaced much like a demon,
And the rest of his face was covered with his own semen.

"I can never plead insanity. That just won't do.
I'm far too together and cock-a-doodle-doo!"
He shit in his pants and things became smelly,
It shook when he laughed like a bowlful of shit**.

He stood at the front door and prepared for his demise,
When a swelling down below in his pants began to rise.
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
He came in his pants, now a mix of white, brown, and red.

He spoke not a word, but he opened the door,
And giggled and laughed because he knew what they were in for***.
Then laying a finger aside of his nose,
He knew he was invisible and tipped on his toes.

Before he could fly away into the sky,
A nine millimeter bullet tore through his eye.
"Holy shit! Goddamn! Fuck! Motherbitch! Ouch!" He cried.
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all, a good-night!"

*Steve Nash appears courtesy of the Phoenix Suns in association with the Reading is Fundamental program. For more information, log onto their website.

**Shit is the Ancient Hebrew word for jelly.

***The grammatically correct version of this line should read: He spoke not a word, but he opened the door,/And giggled and laughed because he knew for in what they were.

Hula The Dogs Out?

Man, that title hurts my feelings, but I'm keeping it up there, so up yours, buddy. Right up it.

I was looking through the near twenty notes on my desk written on the back of a Far Side comic-a-day calendar from 2001 and I found this thing I figured I'd write about today.

A while ago I was watching the show Ripley's Believe it or Not! and in this particular episode there was a one-legged Hawaiian woman who loved to Hula dance. I was happy because it actually showed her dancing and she looked like a gimped version of those things that sit out front of stores that move all crazy when the wind goes through them. I'm not talking about Open-Sore Larry, but it's this thing that's made of cloth or some other space-age material that whips around. Well, the voiceover was saying things about how inspiring it is that this three-fourths version of an actual woman pursued her dreams to Hula dance. That's all well and good, then I learned what bastards there are in Hawaii when the narrator said that she "had proven skeptics wrong" by learning to do this. Who in the Hell is telling her that she can't do this?

The woman is practicing on her front lawn. A man walks by with his daughter.

"Hey, Skippy! What the fuck are you doing trying to Hula dance? Why don't you leave that to the people with two legs?" He grabs his daughter's arm and hurries down the sidewalk. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Honey, but goddammit, some people just don't know when they should give up pursuing their dreams and that makes Daddy very angry."

Days later, a crowd of protestors gathers on her lawn holding signs like "You don't even have two left feet!" and "Hula Foola!" People in Hawaii rarely make signs for things because they're always too busy overpricing their food and pretending that the sand there isn't hot to make the tourists feel inferior, so their signs are always really shitty.

I really doubt that the show was being overly dramatic, either. I'm sure that all Hawaiian people hate amputees and especially hate it when they try to do their native dance.

I respond to reader's questions:
Carl Click writes:

So you built up this long description of two people deserving only the most violent of deaths, and then ended it? i was expecting more story, less set-up. You should have lied and said that in the end you saw their faces and they were your parents! what a twist.

Well, I was going to say that they were DEAD THE WHOLE TIME! But I heard that somebody else did that before me then went on to make three mediocre movies.

Andrew (of the hilarious site, The Scamboogah Daily Rag) writes:
If you respond to reader questions, then what about mine. Where the fuck is my Ensure?!

I would send you some Ensure, but I know that your old ass would be dead by the time it got there and then it would be wasteful. If there's one thing I'm not, it's tall, but if there's two things I'm not, it's tall and wasteful.

By the way, Andrew, since I already stole some of your blog-network icons you use on your site, I was thinking about doing another thing I saw that you did on your site where you listed the names of people that you went to school with and wanted to get back in touch with. That was genius, my friend! So if you see me do that, I completely stole it from you, just like my uncle did with my anal virginity.

Interesting thought of the day:
You can swallow seven dollars and seventy-five cents worth of quarters before gravity begins to pull that weight through your stomach lining. It's fun when they come out, though, because it's like winning at a dirty, underwater slot machine.

Hat's Amore!

I'm kind of proud of that title, so you motherfuckers better appreciate it. You'll see what I'm talking about in a minute.

Yesterday I went out Christmas shopping in an effort to fully celebrate the birth of the one and only true Lord and Saviour Jesus Heccubah Christ. While I was out driving around the consumer's Bermuda Triangle that is Best Buy, Wal-Mart, and Target, I found myself behind a BMW convertible that had a couple in it. This is exactly the kind of couple that I wish would, minutes later after my seeing them, die in a fiery crash. I only saw them from behind, but I could tell just from the attire adorning their upper bodies that they were deserving of the aforementioned horrible death.

They were that couple that you see when you're out that are both wearing khaki shorts, white t-shirts tucked into those shorts, and some sandals with socks. The guy probably has his cell phone clipped on his belt and the woman (and probably the guy as well) has a fannie pack on. And the two bastards are both wearing hats that are the same make and style, but one is green and one is blue. That was this couple. They're the same ones that will both buy and wear the Mickey Mouse sweatshirt for fifty dollars at Disneyland. Goddamn I hate when people wear Mickey Mouse clothing at Disneyland. It's like a woman wearing a maternity dress to her abortion. Okay, that's not a good analogy and it doesn't actually add up, I just like the image of a woman wearing a maternity dress to an abortion clinic carrying a change of clothes in her gym bag.

Back to the two sons of bitches in the BMW. These are the same people who love to hang out at Pottery Barn together and probably have assorted meats delivered to their house. They pretend they know about wines and high society, but in all actuality, they bought a crate of twelve boxes of Sutter Homes White Zinfandel at Costco and call this their wine cellar. The woman puts her hair in a ponytail and pulls that through the hole in the back of the hat. That's got to be the most unattractive look for any woman, but especially this one who wears whore's-red lipstick. The guy has very hairy, white legs (which I know something about) and has no problem with his shorts being uncomfortably short to where if he has to step over something higher than knee height, like a homeless man, you may get a sneak peek at some bottom brain. They absolutely can't stand black people, but if you call them on it, they'll say that they have tons of black friends. This means that one of them works at an office with a black person in it that they accidentally saw at a bar once when they went out with the rest of their white friends. They give to charity, but only so they can tell people that they do to make them seem like they care about other people. They both ran for and won student body positions in their high school. The man has an unhealthy pornography collection and once beat a cheerleader to death in a school bathroom but got off because his dad knows the DA.

Sure I was driving behind these people for about ten seconds, but I know them. And I'm sure you do, too. If you don't know them, you are them.

I respond to reader's questions:
Whore writes, hey kurt. do you not have msn?

Yes? Wait. No. Huh? Yes, I do not have msn. No, I do not have msn. It's impossible for me to answer that question in a way that would mean I do have msn, so, nope. I don't have it.

I'm a Filthy Liar!

I think what I wrote last entry was probably the dumbest thing ever written in the history of the written word (and probably heiroglyphics, too, because those Egyptians sure didn't fool around, they had slaves to beat). So, I'm not going to keep going along that line of writing. I'm tempted to erase that last entry from my blog, but I'll keep it there so those that hold me in such high regard as an expert in the field of letterology (the act of putting letters in a combination such that they form "words," the laymen call this writing) know that I'm just as capable of writing something absolutely shitty, too. And I don't need comments on this entry saying, "You know, you're right, that last entry did suck." I also don't need the ultra-ironic comment that says what I just wrote not to say in the previous sentence with one of those goddamn winky smiley faces next to it.

Anyway, on to what's really important.

This past Friday I took the last final of my college career at eight o'clock in the morning. After class, I went home and took a nap because I'm not used to waking up anywhere close to the higher single digits. Well, it was after this nap that I woke up feeling like I wanted to kill myself because I, apparently, had learned nothing of storytelling and steering clear of contrived, trite, cliche-like-a-motherfucker storylines.

I had the gayest dream ever.

No. Not the dream where I'm blowing Harrison Ford in a pool filled with petroleum jelly. I mean gay in the sense that it was absolutely retarded. Some people of the homosexual persuasion find that the use of the term gay in this manner is demeaning, but it's not, so shut your gay ass up.

My dream was straight out of allegory 101. I actually dreamt that I was running a goddamn race all slow-motion and shit like with the Chariots of Fire song playing and everything and I was crossing the finish line. Then, after I crossed the fucking finish line, somebody handed me a check for $4,000. This is when I started crying like a fat girl unlocking her cookie cupboard.

I woke up with an overwhelming desire to hang myself in effigy out front of my goddamn school where I, obviously, learned nothing. A goddamn race? Really, Kurt? Could that, perhaps, equate itself to your college career that you just finished, you fucking hack? Jesus Christ. Then I cried like the little bitch that I am for getting $4,000. Wow. This is something I'll sure be glad my grandkids find one day when they search the internet for their grandpa who died riding a surfboard in a tornado.

I have a lot more things to write about that I've been jotting down, but I'll save them until later.

Intersecting thought of the day:
When two lines meet and create two right angles, they are called perpendicular.

Guest writer: Uncle Earl!

I'm going to be away from the computer for the Holidays. Since I'm a very devout Christian--I'm going to be visiting Bethlehem--so I am going to have guest writers for the coming weeks. I may take a moment to introduce who they are, but aside from that, I'm going to devote all my time to thanking my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for being born in an easter basket in the back of a Denny's.

Today's writer is my Great Uncle Earl, an 83-year-old former steel mill worker, now doing odd jobs around town.

Goddamn gooks. God Damn gooks. I swear to Christ, if they would just let me get in a plane one more goddamn time I'd strap one of them A-bombs to it and drop that sonofabitch right in the heart of Japan just to remind those bastards that we ain't forgetting shit. Sixty-three years ago today those motherfuckers went all air-ninja-style on us shooting ninja stars and shit at us while we was keeping Hawaii safe.

I wish that fantastic film--cinematic masterpiece I call it--Pearl Harbor starring Ben Affleck and that black boy from that Tom Cruise movie who jumps around a lot like black people like to do, was on every year. Hell, every goddamn week. It shows exactly what happened to us.

I watch it a lot--every morning when I wake up and look through the paper for people selling military surplus--I watch it. But they say it affects my job. I refill candy machines at the local college. Well, sometimes, when I'm refilling, one of them Japs comes around a corner a little too fast and maybe I get a little fidgety. So, I may have, once or twice, hammerlocked one of them kids and shoved some Good 'N Plenty underneath his fingernails. It's not my fault, the sneaky little fucker wouldn't talk. And no matter what they say, it's not because he couldn't speak English. He understood everything I was saying and he was trying to boobytrap the Mr. Goodbars. I know he was. If there's one thing that those people hate more 'bout us Americans than our freedom (Thanks, George W. Bush for that one--best president ever), it's our goddamn candy. And I'll fight to the death making sure that my fellow Americans that aren't Japanese or remotely slant-eyed in any sense can have their Famous Amos cookie or Milky Way--even for black people.

Now, I hope this thing works, I'm writing it at the Kinkos and there's this older lady who works here who I'm pretty sure wants to do it to me. Maybe I'll get lucky.

Well, turns out I had some mayonnaise on my face. I found that out when I tried to talk to her and she threw up. Well, looks like another night of thrashing around my flaccid penis crying to myself about my wasted youth.

Goonies R Good Enough!

Yeah. This is the Cyndi Lauper song I chose to title this one after. It doesn't have anything to do with what I'm writing about, I just wanted to spite people who thought I'd go with "She Bop" or "True Colors," though "She Bop" would probably be much more appropriate.

Julia Roberts recently had twins, a boy and a girl. And, much like those who have come before her, she has given them names that will more than likely induce their first coke binge.

I haven't actually read any press on the babies, I've just read the headlines, but this is what I imagine they say.

Babies Hazel and Phinneaus marched their way out of the Pretty Woman's vagina early Sunday morning in a Southern California hospital. It wasn't a Pelican Brief affair. One eyewitness reports that the room sure didn't smell like Steel Magnolias or Mystic Pizza after her water burst either. Her baby Phinneaus, The Mexican, slid from the womb landing Full Frontal on his freshly severed umbilical cord. If she were alive, I'll bet this birth would have even made Mona Lisa Smile. Upon Closer questioning, Roberts said that she would like to have many more children. Could this be the new Ocean's Eleven or Ocean's Twelve? I'm going to go take a rusty cheese grater to my jugular now.

I hate when people who write entertainment news write shitty, easy stuff like that with a passion normally reserved only for small children and people who include stuff like "LOL" or ":)" after everything they write online. I actually could have included more of her movie titles in that, but I actually started to enjoy it. It's like a parasite that eats away at me. As I was writing it a commercial for the Blue Collar Comedy show came on and I almost didn't want to hunt down Jeff Foxworthy and sodomize him with a tire iron.

People often email me and ask why I hate retarded people so much. Actually, nobody ever emails me and the only interaction I have with the world is every ten years when I purposefully don't mail in my census form so the worker has to come to my house and help me fill out the form. Anyway, for the sake of this story, people always wonder why I hate retarded people. Well, truth be told, I don't hate them. In fact, I've touched one before.

The following is an actual story of something that happened to me in high school (I've got three pretty good retard stories, this ranks last on the list, maybe some day in the future I'll tell the other two):
It was my senior year and I was excited because all through high school I had seen the signs once a year about the blood drive in the gym. For some reason, I had this fascination with giving blood. I really wanted to give it, but you had to be seventeen or something. Finally, the day came when I could give blood and I quivered with girlish excitement at the thought. In the gym that afternoon, there were a bunch of people sitting around waiting to make sure they didn't have AIDS or tattoos or something and I was one of them. While I was sitting there waiting, my friends were across the gym floor feeding people juice, cookies, and shit (this was literal shit, too--I thought it was strange, but they said that nothing helps regenerate blood cells like a spoonful of recycled butternut squash) because they worked for ASB. The girl next to me, who I had suspected was a retard before she opened her mouth, confirmed this belief once she spoke. She was giving me that all-too-familiar look that I've come to learn: the longing look of a retarded girl who wants to bone me. She said to me, in retard, "Are you scared?"

I shot back in her native tongue, "No! I'm actually pretty excited!"

At this point she began to gnaw on a bag of blood on the table behind her and I thought I was done with the conversation. Alas, I was wrong. She said, "Are you sure you're not scared? You look scared."

I was tempted to ignore her because, being the asshole I am, noticed my friends were watching me from across the gym and snickering to themselves. But, for some reason, my heart wasn't in its horribly hardened and dark shape that it is now and I spoke again, "No. Really. I'm fine."

"Well," she replied, "I think you look scared and need a hug."

Fuck! I thought. Please, god, tell me that a hug is something different than actual physical contact to a retarded person--like they're Peter Pan or something.

However, once she stood up, held her arms out, and didn't say, "I'm an airplane made of meat! Whee!" I knew that it was the same thing. I glanced back at my friends for the last time as they watched on with what can only be described as the this-is-the-best-thing-in-my-life-I've-ever-witnessed-and-simultaneously
-I'm-so-glad-that-it's-not-me look on their faces. I stood up and received my karmic punishment for future misgivings that I would impress upon the mentally challenged community.

It was on this day that I learned two things: 1) There is no God and 2) Retarded people smell like a mix between a new He-Man toy and asparagus piss.

Interesting thought of the day:
Mythbusters marathon Sunday is the best day in the history of man. There's nothing like writing two finals papers and watching insect foggers blow up a house filled with homeless people.