Waaah! The President Killed My Child! Waaaah!

Cindy Sheehan, probably the worst human being to have ever, at any point, set foot on the planet, has ended her protest outside of President Bush's vacation spot.

Personally, I'm glad she stopped complaining out there. President Bush was trying to have a nice, relaxing five weeks away from leading the United States in an ongoing war by fly fishing, chopping down trees, and raping illegal immigrants with bedposts, when this lady shows up to bitch and moan that the war was "unjust" or "unnecessary." She shouldn't have had a child and then let him try to pay his way through college by joining the military if she wasn't ready for him to get killed in a war that was a result of the President trying to finish a job his father couldn't.

I know if my dad messed something up, I'd try to save his reputation by throwing thousands of kids at it until, out of pure exhaustion, people would finally admit that, no, your dad wasn't the shittiest President to ever lead the United States, you are. You know how the old saying goes: "You can catch more flies with honey than with dead teenagers." GWB hates flies.

But, contrary to what you may hear from those idiot liberals, this war is absolutely nothing like Vietnam. You see, in Vietnam, people traveled around in their vans protesting a war they felt was unjust. These people are in buses--and they shower! To paraphrase another old saying (and possibly with a little more accuracy), "Those who don't learn history are doomed to repeat it." Everybody knows what an intelligent man GWB is. He was surrounded by MENSA members like Dan Quayle in his formative years (his mid-30s). So there's no doubt that W knows all about Vietnam; he kind of served in it. He served in Vietnam the same way that I starred in the Broadway performance of Rent. I mean, I was in the audience for it once.

I'm an acid trip and two STDs shy of being a goddamn Hippy.

Interesting thought of the day:
Vagina, in the Olden Days, meant something completely different than it does now--much like the word gay. It actually used to mean backpack. "Henry Dewey the Third! Grab your vagina and fill it with pencils. It's time for school."

Jar Babies!

I was checking the "Entertainment" section of google news looking for something inane to write about, when I happened upon this oddly-categorized gem.

I'm not sure that storing 400 fetuses in jars in your garage counts as entertainment to most people (I thought I was on the smaller portion of the pie chart of people who find that entertaining), but apparently I was wrong. Now I can continue working on the screenplay for my stop-motion, pickled fetus, musical, romantic-comedy, "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang 2: Just Like the Prequel, Except the Dick van Dyke Role Is Played By a Greased-Up Fetus." I'm planning on changing the title because it's taking up most of my cover page and hard drive space.

My favorite part of the article, though, is where it says that the fetuses date from 1999 to 2002. I want to know how they figured this out. Was it because some of the fetuses were found to have some work orders out to get their office equipment upgraded and made Y2K compatible? I'm hoping that one or two of them had a ticket stub for American Pie 2 or Battlefield Earth. By the way, if one of them does have a Battlefield Earth ticket stub, I'm glad they were never born. All this world needs is another baby scientologist--or just another baby in general. 95% of babies should never be born; it's a scientific fact.

Actually, on second thought, I think I'm going to start over on that screenplay of mine. I'm thinking of a completely marionetted fetus cast in an avant garde thriller about baby scientologists. It would all be done in one continuous take with the stage completely soaked in formaldehyde and natural fetus juices (by the way, that's all I drink with my breakfast every morning: 100% natural fetus juice) by the end. It practically writes itself.

Childbirth would be way cooler if the baby just kicked its way out of the womb. This would work two fold. First, ladies who have had babies would never try to wear bathing suits again, thus making the beach more pleasant for all involved. And, secondly, by actually making me want to watch a child being born. I'm still traumatized by the video I had to watch in sixth grade where it showed a baby being born. It sounded like somebody spilled a bucket of Shasta all over the hospital room floor. The woman's screaming as her vagina is stretched to unimaginable sizes. Now, compare this to the awesome sight of a woman lying on her back and, out of nowhere, a foot busts through like the goddamn baby Kool-Aid man. He climbs his way out and tugs the umbilical cord from the womb, snapping it off like a vacuum cord from across the room.

Interesting thought of the day:
If I wasn't a writer, I would be a hat maker. Hats are fancy.

News Orgy!

Robert Downey, Jr. found and quickly married the world's first woman made of 100% pure, uncut cocaine. The only info we were given is that her name is Susan Levin and she weighs 47,627 grams.

The Bigfoot tape for people even nerdier than Bigfoot enthusiasts has been released. You heard me right, bird watchers. A blurry, inconclusive video containing what some claim is the ivory-billed woodpecker, a thought-to-be long-extinct species, was shown at the annual meeting of the American Ornithologists Union. Not so coincidentally, this was also the week The 40 Year Old Virgin was released.

And, right now, as I'm typing this, the best thing that has ever happened on television, and I'm not using hyperbole, is transpiring. Diddy (formerly known as nine other goofy-ass and equally self-important nicknames, Puff Daddy being one), is "conducting" an orchestra on the Video Music Awards. He gets quotes because he's "conducting" an orchestra just like you would if somebody gave you one of those sticks and a bunch of angry people with violins. You know, he's moving his shoulders a lot, so that has to count for something. But, from what little I've seen of the show, it looks like it may be the worst one yet, so it may be worth a larger write-up later on.

Well, I just saw this, so it's kind of a segue. Man, segue sure is an ugly looking set of letters for such a pretty word. It's the "but she's got a great personality" of nouns.

Anyway, Suge Knight, the guy who probably had Diddy's rotund friend, The Notorious B.I.G., murdered, got the proverbial cap busted in his proverbial ass. Well, except the cap wasn't proverbial, it was real. The ass, however, was proverbial, and, instead, meant his leg. According to The Guardian, a guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt shot him. Police have only released this sketch.
Finally, the world's largest wet t-shirt contest is about to go down when Hurricane Best Buy rocks the shit out of New Orleans. People are speculating that it could completely wipe out the entire area. This would be devastating to thousands and thousands of girls who like to wake up with unexpectedly sore assholes, a Girls Gone Wild tank top, and some of her best friend's pubic hair in her mouth.

Interesting thought of the day:
Pre-cracked raw oysters are not an aphrodisiac unless you're trying to fuck a sea otter.

God Hates Good Charlotte, Too!

Though I'm an Atheist, this latest news has made me falter in my beliefs.

It looks like it's god's plan to get all of today's shitty musicians together in one spot and drown them to death like old-school Bible flood style.

I just hope that Nelly and Ashlee Simpson don't somehow end up on an ark. I'd hate for it to be up to those two to repopulate the musical "talent" pool. I think Ashlee Simpson would try to use a substitute vagina anyway. Not because of how she lip-synched on Saturday Night Live, but because she hates black people.

The hurricane that's supposed to be performing this biblical feat is Hurricane Katrina. That's kind of a wussy name. If the government was smart, they would turn these disasters into money-making opportunities. They could counter-balance rising gas prices with the revenue generated by corporate branding.

For example, instead of being Hurricane Katrina, reporters would be forced to refer to it as "Hurricane Best Buy: Destroying homes--and prices on electronics--near you!"

They could even turn negatives into positives retro-actively. Remember the Holocaust? From now on, it's the Jimmy Dean's All-Beef Kosher Franks Holocaust. And September Eleventh will be the Nestle Crunch Terrorist Attacks of September Eleventh.

Everybody wins (except for the terrorists).

Interesting thought of the day:
Waffle irons, contrary to their name, do not get the wrinkles out of waffles. In fact, they encourage them.

My Website Can Beat Up Your Website!

So, I decided on a domain name for my new website. For now, it just redirects to this weblog since I don't have anything going on over there yet. I mentioned that I may be buying two domains, but I couldn't convince myself that I needed two, so I just got one.

Now, the reason I decided on this one is because I thought it was funny, but it wasn't offensive (something I wanted to have in case I ever needed to use my email from there for anything). It kind of presents a dichotomy insofar as what the content of the website is as opposed to the name.

So, without further ado, because I'm always getting caught up in my ados, I give to you UnicornParade.com.

I'm hoping to turn it into an all-out comedy website, that's why I didn't go with something with a more blog-based name. I'm hoping to have a forum where people can act like idiots, not just me, have some funny videos I make (or you make), pictures, songs, whatever.

If anybody has any suggestions of things they'd like to see, let me know; I'm completely open right now. And I don't mean suggestions like, "more crotch shots" or "how's abouts you getting some AIDS all up in ya."

Anyway, comment and let me know if you like the name, don't like it, suggestions for the content, or whatever.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you microwave a jar of strawberry jelly for 30 seconds on medium and you have sex with it, it feels exactly like having sex with a woman and looks exactly like having sex with a jar of strawberry jelly.

The Worst Thing to Happen to White People Since Emancipation!

I've done it. I've solved what was apparently the worst crime that has ever happened in the history of mankind. I know who killed Natalee Holloway.

Follow me here.

You live with a bunch of people in a house and, last night, you saw some pizza in the fridge and you ate it even though it wasn't yours. The next morning, this happens:

"Dude, did you eat my pizza?"

"What? Your pizza? No. I didn't touch it."

"Really, cause..."

"That pisses me off. I can't believe somebody would eat your pizza. Fucking shit. You just can't trust anybody anymore. Dammit! You know what? I'm going to make it my personal mission to find out who ate your pizza."

Another person from the house enters.

"Scott, did you eat his pizza? I'll bet you did, you smug motherfucker. Look at that look on his face. You fucking love pizza. You probably wouldn't think twice about it. That's why I've always hated you. I will hit you in the throat with a skateboard if I get any proof that it was you. In fact, I don't need proof. Come here."

See, because when you do something and you're lying about having done it, a lot of times, in order to defer attention from yourself, you make it a bigger deal than the person that it happened to. That's why, I can say with 100% sincerity, that I know who killed Natalee Holloway.

It was Greta Van Susteren.

I'm contemplating buying 2 domain names. I don't want to say what they are because I don't want somebody snatching it up (not that I think they're that great, but I'm just paranoid). But, it's not something that you guys suggested (though I do appreciate it and they were funny), because I decided that I didn't want something that was outwardly offensive in just name alone. I know, that doesn't sound like me, but I think the route I'm going will still work.

Now, though, I need to know if you guys know of any good domain registering places. See, I know godaddy.com does registration, but I was looking for something that would let me register and hide my registration info for a reasonable price. If you guys can suggest any places, I'd appreciate it.

Interesting thought of the day:
"Hardly morbidly obese" is never a compliment, no matter how much you smile when you say it.

It's Like Satan Took a Shit On My Soul!

You'll have to excuse my spelling and grammar on this entry. I'm fighting through tears as I type this. In fact, it may just be too difficult for me to write about at all.

But, I feel it's only right I include you guys in this important, yet terribly tragic, moment in my life. Fuck. In OUR lives.

The...Their...They finally...

Not yet. I just can't type it yet.

First, let me say that the past seven years have been awesome and I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world. Well, I would trade them for seven more years with you instead. Why do you have to do this to us? Seven years? That's all you could give us? It's not fair. I'll change! Anything you want...

Okay, Kurt. Breathe deep. You can get through this.

I held out hope that things would get better. That you would change your mind, see the light, and decide to do what's right for you. For the country. For the world. But you couldn't do it.

That's right. The divorce between Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston has been signed. Selfish motherfuckers.

I know, I wrote about this before when it was first announced when they were separating, but, to be honest, I didn't think that they would go through with it. Their love seemed too strong, too true and pure, for anything to come between. I sent hundreds of cards to both Jennifer and Brad disguised as an apology from the other in hopes that I could keep together this modern American Monarchy. There will be NO prince to take the throne now.

The world is in shambles.

I mean, when September 11th happened, I remember exactly where I was (Glory hole at the AM/PM). And, for weeks, the news coverage wouldn't stop. Now a new September 11th has been crowned: August 22nd. Except, in this case, the people who are affected by this aren't just some New Yorkers in a tall building, but the whole world. As a matter of fact, I'll bet if there is intelligent life out there and they are watching us, they are participating in the mourning ritual of Glarn Flagen. And, no, that's not a new bookshelf model from IKEA.

I hope that the 'round the clock coverage of this never stops. In fact, I would like everybody's help in signing this petition to make sure that they are never far from anyone's thoughts. Please, spread it around as much as you can. If you are a member of a message board, let them know about it. Email everybody you know and even people you don't know. Brad and Jenn affected everybody, not just you and your friends. We have to get the word out. We can't let them go without a fight. We can't.

Interesting thought of the day:
Kazaam, the film starring Shaquille O'Neal as a rapping genie, won the award in 1996 for "Movie Least Masturbated To."

The Reason I Love Life!

I saw a homeless man holding a balloon today.

It was bright orange, connected to a string, and filled with helium.

Normally it creeps me out when I walk past homeless people and they smile at me, but this guy was obviously not looking for anything other than for me to acknowledge the fact that, indeed, his balloon was awesome.

So, I did something I've never done to a homeless person before. I looked him right in the eye, smiled, and pissed all over him. I pissed so much and with such a sustained force that there was blood in my urine. In fact, it transitioned from blood being in my urine, to there being traces of urine in the stream of blood spewing from my urethra, to a clotted fountain of jelly-like stew flowing from deep within the recesses of my bladder. I wanted to make sure that he knew, no matter how much joy he could find in this simple pleasure in his obviously complicated and fucked-up life, it was still going to suck.

Why wait until his balloon popped for him to find that out? I metaphorically burst his balloon. And, as anybody who knows me knows, I love working in metaphors (and drag).

Maybe it was wrong of me, but I was given an honorary membership into the Secret Brotherhood of Keepin' it Real by Snoop Dogg when I met him once at a McDonalds in Garden Grove and I was sworn to, at all costs, keep it real.

And, I didn't mean to sound like a bitch in my last entry about people not commenting. I didn't actually mean that it hurt my feelings when people don't comment, I was just trying to get some of you people out of the woodwork. So, thanks for those.

Finally, I'm thinking about getting my own domain name, but I'm not sure what to go with. I mean, dontreadthisweblog.com is available, so I could do that, but I kind of wanted it to be a little more open than having to be just about the weblog so I could do more stuff like videos and songs and whatever. If you have any suggestions for names that I could use, drop them in the comment section below. I'd like for it to be something that kind of gets across my brand of humor. Maybe even something that I've written before that kind of encapsulates what a bastard I am. SIDSgun.com, anyone?

Interesting thought of the day:
It's a scientific fact that if you talk loud enough at a deaf person, they will eventually hear you.

The World's Most Disappointing Website!

Yesterday I put a counter on this weblog that lets me see how people found this site. Surprisingly, a lot of people have it bookmarked (which is why it hurts even more that you guys aren't commenting because that last entry about Grand Theft Auto was my favorite thing I've written for this site), but, the most interesting thing is to see how people get here through search engines.

Just yesterday I had 2 visitors that tickled my fancy. The first was a guy who was searching yahoo for jokes about retards. Literally, he searched for "jokes about retards," and found my site. I was the fourth search result for that. I don't take that as just missing a medal in the Olympics, it's a gold medal no matter how you slice it.

But that's not my proudest referral from yesterday. It had to be such a letdown when somebody searched google for Kevin Eubanks Shirtless, and I came up ninth. I singlehandedly ruined some girl's (or gay man's) masturbation session. Granted, it's not the first time, but every time I do, the glee it gives me actually sends me into a session of my own. So, in order to appease whatever weird demographic I could possibly be reaching, I figured I may as well include that picture here as well. I'll be your one-stop place to shop for all things Tonight Show/masturbation related. Don't the two go hand in hand anyway?

Sorry about the picture. This weird, artist's interpretation of Kevin Eubanks shirtless on one of his CD covers was the best I could do.

I hope once you're done touching yourself and thinking about his smooth jazz riffs and how cute it is the way that he laughs at the not-funny volcano of words that spews forth from Jay Leno that you stay and read my jokes about retards.

And, in case, for some weird reason, it was this Kevin Eubanks, an English professor from North Central Texas College that you were looking for shirtless, I've done a little editing to help you out in that department.

I hope, for some weird reason, that this Kevin Eubanks looks himself up on google and finds this picture. If you're Professor Kevin Eubanks of NCTC, I apologize--not only for the picture, but because you share the same fate as Michael Bolton of Office Space.

Interesting thought of the day:
The X Games would be much more interesting if they used old-time style equipment for all events.

Videogames Don't Kill People, Videogames Have Sex With Them!

On the heels of the "Hot Coffee" mod for Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas in which, it turns out, the player can control the pelvic thrust of a fully-clothed, ninth grade dry hump session, an investigation into Rockstar, the company who produces the game, has been initiated by Congress.

Almost everybody knows the story, but if you don't, Grand Theft Auto is a game where the player can carjack and murder (with a number of objects: cars, lead pipes, chainsaws, the stink eye) anybody from random strangers on the streets to police officers. The game was released in the U.S. with an M (Mature: 17+) rating. But, since it turns out that there is PG-13 style, simulated, virtual, under the shirt-, over the bra-type sex in the game, the rating has been changed to AO (Adults Only--thus getting it removed from major store shelves everywhere, but not from my heart).

Congress's investigation will probably take down Rockstar because their new game, due out just in time for Christmas, is sure to throw out some red flags.

In Womb Raider, you are a man shrunk down and injected into his girlfriend, much like in the 1987 Meg Ryan smash hit Innerspace, except your job is to murder your unborn baby instead of try to make Martin Short seem funny. You just can't have a kid right now; work at Office Depot is much too hectic. Plus, babies are dumb and can't even speak English.

You have a range of weapons at your disposal: the tried and true shotgun, the flamethrower, grenades, a coat hanger, the new "SIDS gun," and much more.

The environment is very open-ended (pun intended!). The player can unlock hidden areas like the anus (where, on a hilarious side note, once you reach it, the character says they should have probably "come here" in the first place), the esophagus (again he says it here and it's still just as, if not even more, hilarious), and Las Vegas!

During its investigation of this game, Congress found nothing objectionable to report up to this point. Rockstar was in the clear. That is, until they came across a series of videos when it flashes back to the how the baby was made. It shows the man chasing the woman, then, in a Scooby Doo-esque twist, the woman chasing the man, and, finally, the conception of the child. The representative watching the video was visibly shaken and had to be taken out on a gurney.

Below you'll see exactly what it was that sent this man into a tizzy--an actual tizzy. One hasn't been reported since the turn of the Twentieth Century when a woman saw her husband fall off of his bicycle with a giant front wheel, but that record stands no longer.

Warning: These images are graphic. Don't say you haven't been warned.























Needless to say, the graphic depiction of familial relations is more than anybody over sixteen years old could possibly handle. Killing unborn babies with a rusty boxcutter is one thing, but bumping virtual uglies? Heinous. It's unbelievable that Rockstar thought that they could put this in the final version of the game (not even hiding it well like they did with "Hot Coffee") and not have people up in arms.

I, for one, am glad that Congress has been devoting so much time to protecting the youth of America from dangers such as videogames and baseball players with too many muscles, because I wasn't ready to bring a child of my own into this world with things in such disarray. Now, however, I can get married, have a baby, and take my family on a vacation to Iraq like I've always wanted since, apparently, things are all better over there.

Rockstar, in order to appease Congress and have their game released with only an M rating, has decided to cut the sex scene and change the baby into a mentally handicapped one, thus, no doubt earning the approval of Congress and George W. Bush. Because we all know how much he loves to kill him some retards.

The Comedy Central Roast of Pamela Anderson or The Prosecution's Case Against Courtney Love!

Comedy Central aired its Roast of Pamela Anderson tonight. Upon reading the aforementioned sentence, Irony killed itself (and it had just won the lottery yesterday on its 98th birthday). Pamela Anderson deserves a Roast about as much as I deserve to fuck Pam Anderson. It seems, though, that her decision to let herself be roasted came with a few stipulations. The first one was that Comedy Central make a donation to The People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (or NAMBLA, thanks, Daily Show!).

The second was, horrifically, to let her on-again, off-again whale-cocked ex-husband (and my hyphen key just exploded) perform a new song from his solo album. There's a reason that that motherfucker was a drummer in a shitty 80s band and not a lead singer. His voice was horrible, but, thankfully, was mostly drowned out by backup tracks. But the song itself sounded like something that John Mayer would hear and say, "If I record that, I'll lose all my street cred." Richard Simmons would hear that while being slammed in the ass with a parking cone and yell out, "Oh my God! That song is gaaaaay!"

Courtney Love, though, was the highlight of the whole thing. She was completely out of her mind on something (stumbling around, slurring, erratic behavior, smoking a cigarette with her vagina), while promising that she's been sober for a year. Her act is about as convincing as Rosie O'Donnell in Exit to Eden or A League of Their Own or Riding the Bus With My Sister or her talk show.

The best joke of the night went to Jeffrey Ross, the quintessential Roast panelist, with this:
How is it that Courtney Love looks worse than Kurt Cobain?

I haven't seen Hepatitis C so well represented since I rode the Subway in New York at 3 a.m.

Interesting thought of the day:
Retarded people should have to wear Halloween masks in public all the time to make all of us normal people feel better.

Fucking Like Rabbits!

A man in Australia was arrested on the heels of the deaths of 17 rabbits and one guinea pig at one o'clock in the morning in Australia and charged with 18 counts of cruelty to animals and one count of beastiality among others.

I love that he was arrested in his office because, even though it was past midnight on what had to be a tiring day of quiet animal-fucking in his mom's basement, he is still dedicated enough to his work to be there that late. He fucked at least 18 animals to death, but still had to make sure that a loan for one of his clients went through.

That poor guinea pig. He had to see the guy coming in to the pet store every weekend picking up rabbits and was probably so happy, for once, that he wasn't one. Then, on a whim one day, the guy decided to throw a guinea pig in the mix in whatever awesome fantasy he had for that weekend. Or, maybe the store was out of rabbits because of the sudden unexpected demand for them and, since the man just needed to wrap his cock around the insides of some furry animal anus, he decided he would settle for a guinea pig this one time.

The place that helped bring this guy down was "Australia's Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals." That's why I hate a lot of British things. It sounds so smug to call yourself the Royal Society of anything unless you're a knight or a tub of Parkay has deemed it so. But, especially in this case, it just seems like it may be going a bit too far. Maybe not as far as Australia's Royal Society of Hemorrhoid Sufferers, but it's still pretty far.

The man is expected to be represented by his lawyer appointed by Australia's Royal Society of Bunny Fuckers.

Interesting thought of the day:
The semi-colon has the lowest self-esteem of all grammatical devices. The exclamation point has the highest.

It's Our Anniversary!

This post marks a very special occasion in a world where things are called special occasions when they are neither special nor occasions. Aside from being the first day I've used 'nor' correctly in a sentence, it's also my 200th post and just about my 2-year Anniversary writing this thing.

Usually the first anniversary is the paper anniversary, the 25th is silver, 50th is gold. If memory serves me correctly, I believe the second anniversary is denim. So, to celebrate, I bought my blog a jean jacket and denim fanny pack.

Plus, as with anything celebrating its second year in existence, I get to have raucous familial relations with my weblog until one of us starts to cry.

Pedophilia joke, check!

Anyway, I was being reflective; let me get back to that. I've seen my audience of readers grow from a paltry zero to around four (one of whom is my mother--seriously, my mom reads this) in only two years! That's amazing growth. I mean, that's two more than I could have physically brought into this world in the same timespan (provided I didn't lose my good testicle in an awful cheese-grating/dodgeball accident--I know, I shouldn't have been doing the two at the same time, my bad, but I can't play dodgeball without some nachos) with one woman, of course, because I'm classy and all about monogamy; monogamy means anal sex, right?

Penis joke (balls-bone connected to the penis-bone so it counts), check!

I was going to make fun of my first post to commemorate my growth as both a writer and a gentleman lover, but after re-reading it, it's too painful to read and, honestly, have I really come that far? The Iraq War has come further than I have and people there still die on a daily basis.

Then I was going to go through and try to make a "Greatest Hits" type of thing, but not only is that arrogant, but you actually have to have "Hits" in order to compile a "Greatest" list of them. I don't even find this thing funny. I do it for the people (even the retards, though, technically, they're not people but, rather, the intangible "burdens on society").

Retard joke, check!

So, instead, I've written this post of could-haves and should-have-beens and hyphenated words.

Enough of that nonsense. My two-year anniversary matters as much as a new haircut on a fat girl.

Fat joke, check!

My work in this post is done. Just going through the motions here, kids.

I respond to reader's comments:
This last batch of comments was a doozy. I post pictures of myself after two years of writing behind a Mexican wrestling mask and I'm greeted by the Backhanded Compliment Society.

At 8/06/2005 2:16 AM, deleted said...

OHMYGOD!!! that's you!!! i always thought you were some ugly shithead. alas..

So I'm not an ugly shithead? Thanks! I suppose this still makes me a shithead since that's not so much reflective of what one looks like, but at least I'm not, in the most extreme sense of the word, ugly.

At 8/06/2005 5:26 PM, EOB said...
I too was surprised at your face. I had assumed seeing it would turn me to stone, or perhaps salt. And I was pleasantly surprised to find out you are not cross-eyed.

This is another quite uplifting comment. So I don't, as only mythical creatures are capable of doing, turn somebody to stone upon them seeing my face. Nor (my second nor this post, baby!) do I make people go all Lot's wife up in this bitch. And it's a pleasant surprise that I'm not cross-eyed? I'm not sure how to take this one, really. I guess at least you didn't say you were pleasantly surprised to find out that I'm not black (which makes me very happy--I couldn't handle having to wear all the baggy clothes or getting diarrhea from chocolate milk).

At 8/08/2005 4:04 PM, Molly said...

Yeah, WTF!? How could you not be deformed?

My mental image of you is shattered. You don't even have a crazy look about you! It is Ted Bundy terrifying to think you could just walk around and blend in. Your face says, "I'm nice, give me your phone number," while your blog says, "Grapes are nature's anal beads."

I wish I was deformed now. I wish I was like the Phantom of the Internet and you all were my Christine. That's probably the gayest reference I'll ever make (who are we kidding? I've made hundreds of comments about receiving an anal pounding from various people/objects--and if I haven't, just know that I've wanted to). So if I was deformed beneath that mask, then I guess my horrible outlook on the world and its people would somehow be more justified?

It's an act, people! I'm actually a born-again Christian and I teach a Youth Group on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I do charity work with the mentally handicapped (not retards, that's insensitive) and I'm an advocate for abstinence until marriage and sometimes even after. I build specially-made bicycles by hand and completely at my own expense for the wheelchair-bound. I have a wife, Lashonda, and two beautiful kids, Isaiah and Mary. I'm in the process of finishing up a book that I've written that details a way to "cure the gay" just by thinking it out. It's called God Won't Hate You Anymore When You Finish This Book and it's being published by Penguin. I worked for the George W. Bush re-election campaign and I've bombed three abortion clinics because, as we all know, abortion is murder, but bombings are God's work.

Edit: In an interesting twist, I went grocery shopping after I wrote this and heard the song that I titled this post after while I was buying tomatoes! God is real!

Interesting thought of the YEAR:
The man who invented Vaseline ate a spoonful of it every day. The inventor of shit-flavored Jell-O refuses to do the same thing.

Chop Suey!

Thought I'd give a quick progress report on the chops. They probably won't stay because I feel like a fucking dork sporting them, but that won't stop me from thinking that, in some way, they look so badass.

Here's the right side.

I realize it's kind of dark and you can see where I totally just cut myself shaving on my jawline, but shut up. I live in a cave and am sensitive to the light; in fact, evolution is starting to take over and I'm sprouting one of those lantern things that those fish that live at the bottom of the ocean have.

Now the left.Man, I wish I had gray hair. Muttonchops look so much cooler with gray hair.

And here's the front (kind of).
I accidentally gave the camera a little eyebrow and smirk action, but I can't help but to do that when I look at a camera. I like to make it think that I'm better than it and nothing says that better than one lifted eyebrow and a smirk like I just had sex with your younger sister and you have no idea.

So, should they stay or should they go? I, for one, don't care except for the fact that, like I mentioned, muttonchops simultaneously make me feel like a dork and the Fonz. Nothing else does that except for, coincidentally, when I write something on the internet that somebody says made them laugh.

Interesting thought of the day:
A human being can imbibe their own urine seven times before it can kill them. But German people can eat each other's shit forever.

Male Fraud!

A couple of years ago, I found a site that was giving away free subscriptions to FHM and Maxim. Because I have a penis, I decided that I would take them up on this offer. Since I've recently moved, I've been receiving all my mail with those yellow change-of-address stickers on them. Normally they're placed inconspicuously along side the old address.

Not this time.
That's where it is. Somebody at the Post Office decided that my own magazine was much too "hot" for me to look at and, therefore, had to do something about it. Heaven forbid they cover up the part that says "Tall tales from the World Series of Poker" or else I may not open it up to read the story (the thing I do first with every issue of FHM or Maxim).

I hope that the Post Office decides to do this to everybody and not just me.
They got him! They got him! Who the fuck did they get? The guy who, single-handedly, was keeping the ZZ Top beard alive? The homeless guy who was sneaking inside the Time offices and stealing Jason's food from the refrigerator? Yeah. That's probably it.
Now they're just getting ridiculous. How do they even do that with the sticker? And it's in really poor taste. In this case, I think the change-of-address label actually makes the cover more powerful.

Fuck the Post Office with a lava-filled dildo (yet another phrase I can add to the list of "Things That, When Put Into Google, Yield Only My Site (give it a few days)").

On a competely different note, I think I'm going to grow some old-timey muttonchops. If they turn out okay (and by okay I mean that I wouldn't look out of place holding a musket in one hand and my half-slave baby in the other), I'll post some pictures.

Interesting thought of the day:
Rainbows are a natural phenomenon occuring when an Angel commits suicide.

Pro-Choice!

There's this board game called Zobmondo which basically just consists of answering a bunch of balanced "Would you rather..." type questions (i.e. Would You Rather... Be really honest at the office and have everyone angry with you or… not be truthful yet be well-liked?). So, I figured it would be an easy post to make if I just made up a bunch of these questions and let you guys answer or add your own.

1. Would you rather have to carry a midget covered in baby oil through the mall while screaming, "A giant lady just gave birth to this thing in the Robinson's May and they keep coming! Her vagina just swallowed the George Foreman Grill section!" or have to feather your hair (you would look so dumb!)?
2. Would you rather have to endure years of painful, emotionally-scarring molestation at the hands of a close family member or eat a chocolate-covered ant (totally gross!)?
3. Would you rather have a blind man with Parkinson's mutilate your genitalia with a rusty boxcutter or have to wear a fake tattoo that says "Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch 4Eva" for an entire day?
4. Would you rather have to eat a stew consisting of aborted human fetuses or slow dance with a fat girl (guy)?
5. Would you rather have to beat a puppy to death with your bare fists until your hands are covered in puppy brain or let somebody rub their feet on the carpet and shock you when you least expect it?
6. Would you rather inject anti-freeze directly into your heart or have to go to Rhode Island for a week?
7. Would you rather watch your naked grandmother fellate a corpse or watch an episode of "The Swan?"
8. Would you rather put a freshly-removed glass eye in your mouth and then make out with Chuck Woolery (concluding in a night of anal sex; he's the pitcher and hung like a fire extinguisher) or not?

I'm not sure I did those right.

Let's hear your responses and/or additions.

Interesting thought of the day:
When Charles Schultz drew Pigpen, the cloud of dust around him was a metaphor because, as we all know, Pigpen was the only Jewish character in the Peanuts comic strip and Charles Schultz hated filthy, thieving Jews.

Wedding Crasher!

I hate weddings. It's not because I get all choked up and start crying when the bride and groom say I do and then drink the chalices filled with goat's blood and Nestle Quik. I think it's because I hate all the pomp and circumstance generated over these two people I don't know very well for something that has better than a 50% chance of not lasting.

If you couldn't tell, I had to go to one over the weekend. There were some highlights, though. The groom's dad decided that it would be a touching gesture to sing at his son's wedding. And, perhaps it would have been a touching gesture if it wasn't so goddamn hilarious. After the bride and groom exchanged rings, vows, and strains of HIV in front of everybody, the dad stepped up to the mic and knocked "The Keeper of the Stars" out of the proverbial box. From the get-go he was offkey and there was no turning back. I looked around to other people I knew at the wedding to make sure that I wasn't out of line to find this funny and, sure enough, we were all laughing. That's right. Laughing. That's what a horrible human being I am. Here I was at the "happiest" moment of these people's lives and I can't help but think about how awful this guy sounds. It didn't help that the song itself was a horribly cheesy song that I hadn't heard before, so I had to soak in the shitty singing along with the shitty lyrics. It was like an Oreo milkshake, except instead of a delicious blend of Oreos and ice cream it was shit and crap.

If I ever get married, there is no way that I'm having a big wedding. I just don't understand any of it. Why would somebody want to spend all that money on a wedding when they could use it as a down payment on a house or that Korean worker boy you've been wanting to buy? When I tell people this, they always say, "Well, your wife is going to want a big wedding." But no wife of mine is going to want to get married in front of a bunch of people when she has two black eyes. Problem solved. See? Spousal abuse DOES solve problems.

On another note, go see the movie Sky High. I'm not kidding. It was much more sarcastic than you'd think a Disney movie would be. Plus, it had one of the most cleverly written (or acted) lines I've seen in any movie. I'll write it out and it will give you the gist of the tone of the movie.

Kurt Russel (he's a famous superhero in the movie), says to his ex-sidekick Dave Foley, who is now a teacher at the school, after the day has been saved: "Whatever you're teaching them, keep teaching them...it."

And then he walks away. Maybe it doesn't seem funny in print, but, trust me, it perfectly encapsulates the cheese mixed with sarcasm. It does have some excessively cheesy parts and the movie itself is ridiculously formulaic, but there is more than enough in the movie to actually entertain a person with as dark a soul as myself. And, trust me, my soul is dark. It's dark like when black people are so dark that they're purple and it looks like it hurts to be that black.

Interesting thought of the day:
If I ever find a dead body of an old lady, I'm going to put a "Mustache Rides: $5" shirt on her and sit her on the sidewalk in Vegas.