You're the Meaning In My Life, You're the Inspiration

I was struck by inspiration the other day while relaxing with my girlfriend. I just heard this song in my head and had to get it out as soon as I could. A word of warning, it's me singing and performing it, so it's not professional by any means and, also, the quality of the file is kind of shitty. Deal with it.

Edit from the future: I've since re-recorded the song so the quality is better. That can be found here.

My Girlfriend

I may not update for a few days just to leave this visible to new people if this catches on. If not, I'll delete this and make a ritual sacrifice of one severed penis to the Gods of shitty acoustic music.

Because God Says So--That's Why!

Fucking God is up to his old tricks again. This time, the old bastard decided that he just couldn't let the last day of the Olympics go off without a hitch.



This guy in the skirt that looks like a pizza box was just doing what God told him to do when he jumped out and tackled the guy who looks like he's either pooping his pants or just finding out that there's no water at the finish line. This article says that the "defrocked Irish priest" has tried this type of stunt before to promote the teachings of God at cricket and rugby matches. God has a bad P.R. department then because you'd think he'd pick events that people actually give a fuck about. I heard he's planning to have somebody run into the auditorium and throw over a chess board at an exhibition match at a high school for the deaf in Ohio. There's going to be a lot of unintelligible moaning and hand movement to be heard for feet and yards around.

I don't know about you, but I'm sick of this God character. He tells all these people to do all sorts of weird shit, and nobody ever calls him on that. Nobody ever says to blame God when they lose the Superbowl, but, when they win it, he's the first one they thank. Congratulations, you just won a Grammy, who would you like to thank? Well, first I'd like to thank my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Horatio Christ. Just once, I want to see this.

INT. AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Some shitty band stands up on the stage announcing the winner for Best New Artist.

Evanescence: And the Grammy goes to...Simply Red!

The crowd applauds as Holding Back the Years blares. Suddenly, all of Culture Club stands up, points to the sky and yells: Fuck you, God!!! You promised! You said if we did a song called "Karma Chameleon," you'd totally give us a Grammy. We don't even know what a Karma Chameleon is!

That's what I want to see. First, I'd have to get that Time Machine working. It just isn't fair that God always gets off scot-free. But if I told somebody that I'm going to help them win something, and, if they win, they have to thank me, but if they lose, they can't blame me, they'd look at me like I was crazy and then ask why I was wearing nothing but rainbow suspenders and a garter belt and standing in the middle of their lawn while the sprinklers were on while hoisting my boom box blasting "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel in the air a la John Cusack in Say Anything. The previous 89 words were brought to you by the John Steinbeck Foundation for Run-On Sentences. Next time something doesn't go my way, I'm blaming God. When I go to Vegas in a week and a half, if I lose, I'm going to interrupt some sporting events, like a pinata beating at a children's party or a Scrabble Championship, with signs that say, "God Hates You" and "If God Really Loved You, Would He Have Given You That Lazy Eye? I Didn't Think So. That Means He Doesn't Exist. You Should Probably Go Think About That Suicide Now." Maybe that second one would be a banner.

God just told me I'm done writing this entry.

Interesting thought of the day:
Frosting is good on EVERYTHING. Seriously. I put frosting on a sandwich of my own pubic hair and it was delicious.

Children of the World Are My Puppets!

This weekend, I, once again, found myself in a situation where I was surrounded by children. Now, to many of my readers this may seem like a wet dream on some level or another, but, to me, children normally spell the deepest darkest pits of Hell and despair. That is, until I found out, how to use kids to entertain myself.

A child who can speak, ages 2-7 or so, does anything for attention. So, if you're talking to said child, and tell them to repeat something you say, they will, more often than not, do this because kids are dumb and I'm convinced that they all have some form of brain damage because a lot of them can't even really count or talk right. All it takes is for me to tell the kid to say something to somebody and he does it. He's like my own, personal, living, breathing Instant Messenger service. Moments later, I hear his mother yell from across the room, "You are not a bastard child and a complete waste of human flesh." Mission accomplished. Having a kid put himself down isn't where the fun stops, though. A lot of times, a kid will show more loyalty to a stranger than he will to his own parents (hence my summer "Our Little Secret" Tour of 2002). This can be used by telling a kid to scream out, "By the way, mom, your breast milk tasted like shit. I'm glad I'm off that stuff. It's like liquid ass." Granted, it may not come out as eloquent as that, but, nonetheless, making a kid say "shit" and "ass" has to be one of the top five joys of life.

I also saw two movies this weekend: Suspect Zero and Garden State. I'll start with the shitty one first. There may be some spoilers for Suspect Zero to follow, so, if, for some odd reason, you really want to see that movie, don't keep reading. But, trust me, I'm doing you a favor (I'm not going to spoil the ending or anything though, but I may talk about plot points). Suspect Zero is a movie about Ghandi as a serial killer. On paper this sounds like solid motherfucking gold. It's shitty, though, because the main guy, Aaron Eckhart, could be one of the worst actors in existence. Granted, he didn't have a good script to work with, but Ghandi managed to make the movie less shitty, so ole Eckhart should have done his part, too. There's a cool part of the film that involves remote viewing, which I've never seen used in a movie before, but that's the only real original part of the movie. The rest of it is like Se7en if Se7en was a shitty movie. That's all I want to write about this movie because, honestly, it makes me want to go back to the theatre and bodyslam everybody that works there onto a mattress filled with guns and sticks.

Garden State, on the other hand, was a really good movie. It does have some vaginistic moments of romantic goodness that some people may not care for, but, for the most part (except for the very ending) it worked well and never went too far with the sugary bits without making fun of itself or taking it in a direction that films don't normally go. Also, Natalie Portman is in it and made me want to marry her. This is a big deal because I don't even think I want to get married, but, if Natalie Portman wrote me a letter or a really nice email, I think I'd consider it for her. Also, the movie has a few retarded jokes, so, of course I like it. Fuck the retards in their giant heads and spaced-too-far-apart eyeballs. Serves 'em right for being all sensitive and happy and smelling like shampoo and candy.

The Aforementioned Top Five Joys of Life (in no particular order, just that there are five of them):

• Making a kid cuss (especially in front of his parents or other immediate family).
• Watching anybody you don't know trip or hurt themselves (the more severely the better) in public.
• Watching somebody you do know trip or hurt themselves in public.*
• Making fun of Jesus in front of somebody who believes in God and all that stuff.
• Slimjims two for a dollar at 7-11.

*The same rules as the above item apply.

If there was something I missed, I know you all will fill it in for me below. So hop to it, my bitches.

Interesting thought of the day:
On the internet, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's probably a dude pretending to be a chick.

Awkward Silences--Film at Eleven!

I take pleasure in the little things in life: midgets, ponies, my "innie" genitalia, and awkward moments in live television. The best of these comes when a newsperson is giving a "news brief" of what's going to be on the news coming up at whatever time and they finish early. I think the station allots a certain amount of time for these segments, like fifteen seconds, and when the bastards finish early, it's probably the happiest time of my day.

This is how one of those situations goes:
Newscaster: "...so, I'm afraid somebody's going to have to buy little Timmy a new bicycle, or else fish it out of Delta Burke's ass. We'll have the rest of the story at eleven."

Now, the magic.

The broadcaster--we'll call it a him so I don't have to be so pronounally ambiguous--looks into the camera with a forced smile that can pass as normal if it's onscreen for a half second. But, when that smile lingers on camera, that guy can pass for a whole bag of murderers all wrapped up in one. Then, when they know it's going too long, you can see their eyes start to dip, wanting so bad to look down at the paper in front of them to escape the torture of that red light staring back at them with nothing to say, but, they learned in Journalism school that, in order for America to trust you, you've always got to grab 'em by the balls and stare 'em in the eyes. Maybe that's Dog Obedience School. Whatever.

Today, though, today was the quintessential moment of my awkward-silences-in-news-broadcasts-watching existence. I had on Fox News right before the O'Reilly Factor started because there's nothing I like more than watching somebody on TV that I know, for a fact, I'm better than in every aspect, and some guy who does the quick news named Skip, Chip, or Blade or something was way too brief with his news brief and had time to kill. He made things more awkward by acknowledging the fact that he finished early and he didn't know what to do with the time. Then, in saying that, he had filled the time he was trying to escape, but then he ended with something that multipled that awkwardness tenfold. It was like walking in on your brother masturbating, then starting to masturbate yourself. He said, "Later." He didn't say, "I'll see you later" or "Catch you later." No. He ended a news broadcast like he just finished hearing from his frat brother that they had secured a keg for their Toga party this weekend and it was going to be "fucking sweet." Fuck that guy. No, wait. I think his name is Shepard Smith. Yep. That's him. Fuck him in his stupid fucking part in his hair.

There's another newscaster who bugs me, but he's just a local LA guy. He used to work for NBC a long time ago, but he's been with Fox for a long time now. Anyway, the guy's name is John Beard. The reason he irritates me is that, he's got the built-in name and yet, just to spite me, he never grows a goddamn beard! If my name was Kurt Muttonchops you better believe I'd sport those sons of bitches as soon as I could grow them. If I was born Hairlip O'Hunchback, I'd do my best to make these things come to fruition; I'd graft my lip to the tip of my nose and take a sledgehammer to the spine. I implore you, John Beard, for like a week, grow a beard to go with your mustache that taunts me.

That's all.

Later.

Interesting thought of the day:
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but don't go telling it that, it's already got a big enough head as it is.

Scratch and Burn!

This entry isn't about the new line of stickers I'm coming out with that smell like delicious Pepper Spray. No, the formal announcement for my new sticker line won't come out until Fall. It's time I write about Vagisil.

I don't know the ins and outs of exactly how or what this magical ointment does, but the commercials do a fantastic job of making me feel uncomfortable. They say how it will ease--and these are their words--the "itching and smell." Okay, gross. But, they don't stop there. They show some lady who is obviously overjoyed that, finally, her vagina doesn't burn or stink anymore. I guess I'd be ecstatic if, for weeks on end, my cock felt like it was being boiled in a pot of bleach and piranas, and all I had to do was apply a salve, but the commercial doesn't let it end there. This woman's happy because her vagina doesn't have the flu anymore, so, they decide to show just what it's capable of doing now that it's rejuvenated. They have the woman doing things that highlight her ladyparts. I don't mean she puts glowsticks or flares in there (though that would totally sell me on buying some Vagisil), but they no longer show her face and it's pretty much a shot of her vagina going crazy. She's doing these exercises that nobody ever does unless they're showing off the fact they've got maximum extension of their entire vaginal region. The first exercise was okay, it was a woman doing lunges, but the second one they showed was the same woman, naked from the waist down, and a midget was speedbagging her labia. Then it showed a shot of her face where she just stood there with a smug look on her face like, "Nope. I don't feel a thing. Thanks, Vagisil!"

That's how you write a long paragraph containing complete overusage of the word "vagina." I've got a lot of euphemisms for the man's beef-wand, but I just don't have as many for the woman's parts, so you'll have to either supply me with more, or deal with it.

Made-up Aphorism of the day:
A broken arm is worse than a broken heart. At least with a broken heart, you can still masturbate.