I'm Old And My Ass Hurts!

It seems that Jesus has decided to make me feel my newly acquired age of 26 by making me sore for almost no good reason. I went bowling, and now my left ass is sore. I don't bowl any differently than most people (most people throw the ball ten feet in the air, turn around and let it carem off their left asscheek, correct?). All I know is, Friday night I went bowling, Saturday morning I woke up and my ass hurt like I spent all night kicking my "handsy" uncle in the balls.

Man, I just used an expression I hate: "All I know is..." Fuck me. If that really was all I knew, I'd be shitting my pants (well, what I called "pants" but was actually a bunch of ketchup packets from Jack in the Box that I put on my legs because I liked that they felt cool on my skin), fucking a bucket of mud instead of typing this. I said "instead of," not "in addition to." I'm allowed to do all three of those things and have a completely average mental capacity.

A couple of entries have gone by sans comments from the faithful readers. What's going on, kids? Do I need to write about more offensive things? I have no problem doing this, but I'm trying to build up somewhat of a more mainstream portfolio of non-fiction writing selections so I don't get replies like the following:

Kurt,

We here at Reader's Digest are not interested in a writer who shares your beliefs on "Whoopi Goldberg," "retards," or "the skin tag on your taint." If you'd like to reapply, you may do so only after six months has passed from the time of this email. If, at that time, you have grown up and learned to write things like a normal, non-sociopathic human being, we'd be more than happy to hear from you again.

Sincerely,

Reader's Digest Senior Editor
Diana Casey

So, cut me some slack if I don't write a diatribe on how I hate people with arms that are too short for their body and, therefore, should be burned at the stake for being witches.

Interesting thought of the day:
Alcohol is like laxative for panties.

Not Another Good Movie!

Kim Basinger and the guy from Not Another Teen Movie joined forces to create a hilarious film called Cellular which I had the distinguished pleasure of witnessing tonight. The director managed to do something which isn't done enough, which is making a movie so bad that it's funny. It seemed like he learned all these "cool tricks" in film school that he had to use as much as possible no matter what. There were a lot of camera movements that were as unexpected as a fart that brings a little liquid luggage along with it. The worst part, though, was that every movie cliche ever made was in the film. They're too numerous to name one by one, but, needless to say, the scene where the policeman who's just about to retire, but decides he has one last thing to do--that's in there.

The most heartbreaking thing about the film is that it was a decent idea (like the movie Birth I saw a preview for--awesome idea), but it was so full of contrivances--down to the idea that the kidnappers would leave a working phone line, albeit smashed phone, in the room where Kim Basinger was--that it made me want to burn everbody involved with the film alive. I don't have anything particularly funny to say about the film without ruining it, except to say that you really should go see it, but go knowing that it sucks so bad it's good.

The best part of the night was after the movie, in the parking lot, as I'm about to back out I see a young boy and girl standing at their respective cars in that awkward is-he-going-to-try-to-kiss-me?/I-wonder-what-her-cervix-feels-like moment. I laughed in my car as I watched the guy squirm and gesticulate in all his glory as he tried to figure out just what to do. I left before they did anything, but not without stickying up my steering wheel and ruining another gear shift knob.

Boring entry tonight; pretend that I used the phrase "Walrus chewing on a sack of boogers" a lot.

Made-up aphorism of the day:
Humanity is like a box of Crayolas. If you buy enough, it comes with a free crayon sharpener.

Surprisingly, Roy Tasted Like Bratwurst!

Tonight on NBC, Maria "Skeletor" Shriver interviewed Siegfried and Roy. The majority of the interview consisted of recreating, with creepy computer graphics that made Roy look like Kevin Bacon in Hollow Man, the incident where Roy lost half his head and his pure, Aryan bloodline was tainted by the mouth of a tiger. Even though he's a "white" tiger, Montecore is actually half-Jewish. His agent didn't want him to use his last name, Greenberg, for fear that it would hinder his getting a gig with the dazzling duo.

The thing is, Roy is so fucked up now. Nobody should be allowed to make fun of him. He's like this girl I met one time in junior high who fell off a damn horse and, at age 14, had to relearn everything. A side note: She apparently hadn't relearned the old "Put this in your mouth and count to ten" trick. I'll take it how I can get it.

It's weird though, because it's hard enough to understand Siegfried and he hasn't had a stroke (other than the pre-attack ones on his "magic wand" from Roy). But listening to Roy is like trying to understand Muhammad Ali underwater.

The strangest thing of all is that, when somebody goes through something that almost kills them and fucks them up for life, a lot of the time they end up "finding God." As somebody who'd sooner believe that a fucking dragon lives at the center of the earth and he's made of cotton candy, than the idea that God exists, perhaps I'm biased, but I just can't understand this. If I got completely fucked up--paralyzed, castrated, or had to go through life as that kid in class who always smelled like poop--I'd believe less and less that there was a God. If I couldn't control when I shat (past tense of to shit) and I had a tube pulling the urine from the tiny penis that the Lord bestowed upon me, the last thought through my head would be, Jesus loves me! But, somehow, like the magic he so loved to practice before the tiger-induced stroke made his eyes look like Shannon Doherty's, Roy found God on the operating table when they were pulling eight-pound teeth from his neck.

I hope that cheered everybody up today. I know I feel much better.

Interesting thought of the day:
If a person in front of you has a lot of groceries and you have very little, just say to the person, "You don't know what gets bloodstains out of Barbie Doll hair, do you? By the way, I'm in a huge rush, do you think there's any way I can go ahead of you? I hate waiting almost as much as I hate mandatory visitation." Odds are, you'll get to buy your spaghetti sauce and People Magazine much sooner.

The Vodka-Spewing Tornado

No, this isn't the nickname for the whore in your English Lit class that you saw going down on two guys at once at a frat party. I'm talking about Hurricane Ivan in all its glory. Is it wrong that I thoroughly enjoy the fact that the Southeastern United States is having its ass beaten by three consecutive hurricanes? The best part about this is that Charley and Frances, the previous two hurricanes, did so much damage and have the gayest names. First, Charley came in with his baby-tee and handbag and softened Florida up. Then, Hurricane "Don't Call Me Frank" Frances removed his fannypack and choked the shit out of what was left. Now, their butch friend, Ivan, is here to make sure that "that punk-ass bitch, Florida, don't go talking no shit behind their backs no more."

To anybody that may have died in Charley, I feel bad for you. To anybody that died in Frances, you were warned. To anybody that dies in Ivan, you deserve it and I hope you enjoy your nightly soul-rapings in the bowels of Hell for the next thousand years. Seriously, anybody who doesn't get out of Florida in a timely manner this time better be completely paralyzed, dead, or absolutely retarded--or some combination of those three. It would suck if somebody left their paraplegic, retarded son outside, chained to the porch during the hurricane, but I'm not saying I wouldn't want the video.

I'm not writing a lot today. Except, if you're the brunette girl who worked at Honolulu Harry's in Corona tonight, and, by some miracle of miracles, you read this, I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you. She looked like an elf and an angel had a baby made of clouds, candy, and rainbows. I wanted to cut her head off and take it home with me, she was so pretty. Maybe that's why I'm not allowed to cut off girls' heads anymore; I just get carried away.

Interesting thought of the day:
If you punch a kitten in the face enough times, it eventually stops being cute.

Accidental Pedophilia--Intentional Hilarity!

On the way to Vegas on Friday afternoon, there were six of us riding in some big vehicle. I'm not good with car makes or models, so I won't even pretend to try to give the actual name of what it was. Well, we hit a shitload of traffic like it was 1985 and Vegas was selling Cabbage Patch Kids for $1.00.

There are certain people, in this situation, that one chooses to keep an eye on. There was the man from Argentina who we saw inside the Del Taco in Baker (or Barstow--one has the world's largest thermometer, the other has the Dairy Queen, but I get them confused) who screamed at one of the guys I went with, "We beat you in basket!" We're assuming that this meant that his country beat our country in basketball in the Olympics. I'm assuming this after doing a google search for "Argentina defeats US in basket" and coming up empty. Then there was the bitch in the Audi who, in five-mile-an-hour traffic, was riding people's tails like she was a puppy fucking another with a knot in her cock. She just wouldn't get off.

Finally, there was this beat up old car (again, sorry I'm bad with car types, but it was blue, does that help?) that you could tell didn't have air conditioner that had two adults in the front two seats and two german shepherds and a young girl, probably five or thirteen, in the backseat. The dogs were pacing in what little room they had in the Vegas heat and the little girl was sipping some sort of beverage. We all made note of the shitty situation for the girl in the back and one of the guys I was with says, "She's pulling hair from her cup." This sounds innocent enough. But, when you're a sick-ass sonofabitch like I am, it comes out, "She's pulling hair from her cunt." I immediately started laughing and trying to stave off a monster erection that had to be just around the corner. When asked from other people in the car why I was laughing so hard, I was puzzled. Had I accidentally agreed to ride to Vegas with a truck/SUV-ful of pedophiles and not known it? The word 'cunt' is horrible enough, but to use it to reference the young girl's area, it was too much to take. Even I, who fake pedophilia occasionally, couldn't help but laugh at the harshness of what he said. When I reiterated to the other five in the truck why I was laughing, all of a sudden, I'm the sicko? Fuck those guys; they're the ones who said it. It didn't even make sense. Why would a young girl trapped in the backseat of a car in hundred-degree weather with two huge dogs be pulling hair from her prepubescent no-no spot? Then, it dawned on me that I had misheard what he had said and I was forced by the other five guys to immediately register as a sex offender for even thinking of what I didn't actually hear.

Well, technically, today (the 14th) is my birthday. I'm a year older and still, at age 26, unable to grow a full beard. It's sad when you think about it. When I was younger, I was sure that by my age I'd be able to grow a full beard, pee at a urinal like the grown-ups without having to pull my pants all the way to my ankles, and I would have, at least once, known the ultimate pleasure of meeting the blonde chick from The Wonder Years who says, "Would You Like Some Butter" in French. Sadly, none of these things have come to fruition.

Interesting thought of the day:
"Four score and seven years ago," in olden times, was what people used to say instead of "Many moons ago, bitches!" Sure, only my Native American friend, Busts Caps In Y'all Motherfuckas, who's in the only gang openly recruiting Cherokee, says stuff like that, but that doesn't make it any less true. Stop judging me.

I'll rape the great grandchildren of anybody who posts a comment and doesn't wish me a fucking happy birthday.