Mindlessly Flippant

YAY!!! I promise not to kill you like that again!

2011-06-22T20:02:00.000-06:00

In the Steal of the Night

2011-06-17T01:42:00.000-06:00

Who knows what you’ll find after you go through the window
Perhaps a fine chardonnay or an old Nintendo
You never know until you try with a shaky hand
What benefits one can reap plundering someone’s land
In their quiet dark house you cannot turn on a light
Unless you want to wake groggy persons for a fight
Tiptoe is the preferred choice for a seamless travel
Bump into the fine china and you’ll get the gavel
I always first rummage through their fridge for a last meal
Because it’s up in the air where you go once you steal
While I scarf down cold fried chicken and the last Fat Tire
I look at their pristine dishwasher and admire
It’s a Kenmore SmartWash with Energy Star sticker
Forget the rest, now I want nothing but to nick her
So I find the garage and gather all the right tools
Walk back and realize I’d break many cardinal rules
Never steal something you cannot fit into a sack
And never steal something you’re gonna wanna bring back
In the living room one can find costly plugged-in stuff
If you feel confident you can carry on in the buff
Avoid all the rooms except for the one with money
Now better leave soon or the cops won’t think it’s funny
This is when one should leave a criminal calling card
A pile of dog poo on the carpet, not on the yard
When you decide to leave, don’t leave back through the window
Unless all you took were chardonnay and Nintendo

The Smell of Silence

2011-06-13T00:41:00.002-06:00

I just took out the trash. No, I didn’t just fight ten ninja’s in an alley and throw them into a neat pile in a dumpster. I really took out the smelly garbage that women get men to take out to the end of the driveway because it’s gross. Back when I was a liver taste tester for the Untimely Death Meat Company, I used to take out the trash for them in-between taste tests. I would carry bags and bags full of disgusting gross trash and throw them really far. Far far away from anybody. (This was back when dumpsters didn’t exist.) Grateful people would applaud my ability to get trash away. Especially those with a hypersensitive sensory system. Once the trash was away everybody was relieved, until there was more trash.

Back then ninja’s would attack me when I took out the trash. They’re stealthy little bastards. They would take a step whenever the meat bits would slosh around in the bag. When I sensed they were close enough I would repeatedly slam the large bags into them. Sometimes the bags would break open and I would use the meat juices to drown them. I think I’ve kicked so much ninja ass that they didn’t return or there aren’t that many that can return. Ninja’s wanted to attack me to prevent me from taking out the trash because it was gross. Eventually I kicked so much ninja ass before taking out the garbage that someone put “taking out the trash” in a cheesy action movie.

I’m really good at taking out the trash. I’m almost as good at taking out the trash as I am at watching TV, but not as good as kicking a ninja’s ass. I’m also really good at needlepoint. I got so good at stitching up my wounds after a fight, that transitioning to needlepoint was no big deal. Sometimes my wife tells me I’m really good at taking out the trash and I tell her she is really good at instilling a stereotype. Then she turns red and blows steam out her ears in a cartoon-like manner and then challenges me to a needlepoint competition. If she is pissed off enough she’ll win, but I’m the one with the killer needlepoint skills.

Swell Bulge

2011-06-10T00:52:00.000-06:00

I’m so happy my favorite politician sent me a picture of my favorite part of his body. I have to admit I wasn’t expecting him to send it to me, but I do have a vagina and a male wiener would fit perfectly inside it. All I’ve ever wanted was to have a picture of a wiener until I could get a real one inside me. Nobody ever sends me a picture of their wiener because they think it’s kind of rude, but this one beautiful politician makes a great decision to send me a picture of it. I’m voting for him again, but only if he keeps sending me more pictures.

I just finished blowing up the picture to life-size and measured it to see if it was the right size. I’m glad he sent a picture first before he just came over and just shoved it inside me because it is too big for me. He is a very kind and considerate man. It is unfortunate that I don’t have me some wiener right now of course, but I will eventually find the right sized politician wiener. Patience is a virtue. Plus, if the news keeps talking about politicians who sext their body parts to women, then more and more politicians will soon follow the herd and I’ll have me some real politician wiener in no time.

Nothing is better than a penis that has been attached to a really smart brain and been around enough money to be coddled and get it properly massaged on a regular basis. A rich politician can afford good underwear that gives the proper support, but doesn’t crush and allows it to breathe and continue to grow. I’m sure they all get a $200 hair trim down there on a regular basis like Bill Clinton. I wouldn’t be surprised if parents of future politicians have a top notch doctor circumcise them with sheer precision. If they were really rich they can have a wiener professional (like a gynecologist) always around to make sure it grew healthy and strong. Bodyguards are a bit superfluous, but necessary to prevent very evil evil people that feel the need to kick the groin.

I would never kick a groin. I would shake the hand of any man that sends me a picture of their wiener.

A Poor Man's Lament

2011-06-02T23:37:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago I ate a delicious dish of boiled boots with my old chap Charlie Chaplin. It was a feast. Recently I’ve mostly been eating soylent green in ridiculously-hard-and-huge tablet form. I ordered them online from Czechoslovakia. It only costs fifty cents for a ten pound bag. It’s starting to make my lips, fingernails, toenails and eyeballs a dull green. Now that I don’t have boots on, people can see my toenails match my fingernails. Mothers have complemented me on my ability to put together an outfit when I wear green and then demand I eat a proper meal at their house when I tell them why I’m color coordinated. It doesn’t always work out to my advantage though. If they have a stupid loud crying baby I say no immediately. If they have one at their house I leave immediately. Half the time their “proper meal” tastes like tuna and ketchup.

I’ve had no money since the beginning of April when I used the last of my money to buy 2,000 pounds of soylent green. I moved out of my apartment and now I’m living underneath my brother’s bed. Its rent free if I give him a sponge bath every day, do his laundry, make him meals and not be there when he is awake. (When I was giving my brother a sponge bath this morning, I caught myself picking the bugs out of my brother’s hair and eating them like a monkey.) It’s okay though, I can’t stand him either. I usually end up going to Target and walk in front of mothers on purpose. I don’t have money for gas or insurance, so I find myself walking uphill both ways when I make the trip to Target.

If I don’t get unlucky and get a home cooked meal of tuna and ketchup, I become tempted to steal food. I have to sacrifice a few soylent green tablets for that to happen though. I put the tablets in a full water gun and then spray the security cameras. After about ten minutes the soylent green corrodes the camera until there is zero visibility. If I’m lucky I’ll stick a birthday cake to my chest and belly and walk inconspicuously as possible out the front doors. I’ll then feast upon its goodness as I walk home uphill.

Much Ado About Something

2011-05-24T01:12:00.000-06:00

I just finished singing Don Giovanni for three hours. I sang every part. I finally memorized all of the lines. Now I will learn all the lines for Terminator 2. The musical of course. It is going to have pyrotechnics shooting out to da-da-doom-doom-doom. It is in preproduction, that’s why you have never seen or heard of it. Actually I think it is still in the final writing stages and hopefully will replace Spiderman when it flops on stage. I have an understudy when I am under the weather. He performs whole plays when I don’t feel well. Only on top of my apartment building, away from the ledge so nobody can see it. Kind of like the Beatles last concert.

Before I perform I gargle with sand and aloe vera juice; it scrapes and heals at the same time. This makes my voice clear. I do lunge stretches with my legs to keep a perfect stance so I can belt out emotional goosebumping vocals. I stretch my arms as well and then flap them like sideways helicopters. This allows my arms to have a full range of movement to accent my vocals with intense vigor. I put on a swimming cap and a woman’s one piece bathing suit over leg tights to allow proper air flow, so air can move in and out of me as fast as possible. I could wear a wrestler’s suit, but it makes me feel like a jock and I’d rather look like a transvestite to the people that can see me from other apartment buildings.

When I’m done gracing the neighborhood with my fantastic vocal presence, I allow my understudy to give me a full body massage with the sand and aloe vera juice I gargled with. He sings to me with his beautiful castrato voice while he lightly beats on my body and my ear drums. At the end of the day I read to him the Terminator 2 script as he starts to fall asleep in bed. He wonders if he could audition for the puberty cursed voice of John Connor since he has a castrato voice. I told him, “Hell no, you will always be my understudy because I am more brilliant and magnificent than Plácido Domingo. Now g-g-go to bed, s-s-swe-et dreams.”

Captain North Korea

2011-05-22T18:33:00.000-06:00

I thought about stuff last night. It was only temporary. I sneezed and it jostled my brain and I couldn’t stop thinking about stuff until I passed wind five minutes later. I hadn’t thought about stuff since I was a teenager when I used to think about things as well as stuff. The stuff I thought about last night was about making more movies about what we are making right now. Like we make the exact opposite of what we make. After we make a vampire movie, we then make a movie about a doctor that puts blood back into people. After we make a love story about a couple in love, then we make a movie about a couple in hate and they just hate each other the whole movie. Instead of kissing they punch each other and instead of holding hands they rip each other’s arms off and instead of having sex they chop each other up with machetes.

It’s good we keep making comic book movie after comic book movie after comic book movie after comic book movie after comic book movie after comic book movie because we make a shit ton of money instead of shit pounds of money. And who is more deserving of making money than us? No one. So I have a movie idea we can make right now. It’s the opposite of Captain America. I call it… Captain North Korea. You know the guy is a weak and small American at first and then they put him in a make-bigger-and-stronger machine. In Captain North Korea we take Kim Jung Il and put him in a make-bigger-and-stronger machine and he comes out looking like Bolo Yeung with hair that looks like the guy with really tall hair from Kid ‘n Play. Then he goes around and spreads Communism to all the unlucky Democratic Nations and gives kids red Communist lollipops to suck on. Nice wholesome entertainment.

The opposite of Iron Man is Cardboard Man. After Green Lantern comes out we make Yellow Candle and every time he runs his candle goes out so he ends up walking very carefully, but not to prevent vicious crimes but to prevent people from helping out other people. Spiderman… Centipedeman. Aquaman… Landman. The X-Men… The 24-Women. Superman… Plainman. The Incredible Hulk… The… The… Regular… Slim Man. I can go all day long, but I’d rather you catch my drift and I reap all the benefits of other people thinking of stuff and things off of the stuff and things I just thought about and then told you. And we do this forever. We make twice as much money as we are now. We’ll make a shit megaton.

Fin the Nude

2011-05-18T08:53:00.002-06:00

The last day of school was last week. I went to school naked. Finally! It was liberating. I’ve always felt imprisoned in my clothes at school. Metaphorically and physically. Just at school really. I’ve never felt that way in a movie theater, or a bookstore, or a police station (metaphorically I do), or at a nudist colony, or at a strip club… no wait I take that last one back. I did it today so there wouldn’t be any repercussions. Well… immediate repercussions. I finished the semester and they’ll probably forget about it before the fall. I did it because I was sick of those nightmares where you go to school naked. Now that I did this I hope I’ll have dreams where the rest of the class is naked and I laugh at them.

I didn’t quite get the reaction I was expecting when I dropped the trench coat in Spanish 2 last week. El hombre se sienta desnudo en una silla listos para aprender. I think everybody at first thought they were in a strange dream until they pinched themselves. A few people busted out laughing—not at me, but because it was funny—which I was expecting because I’m ripped with a fantastic wang and not fat with a thumbtack. Right now I could make a slew of penis jokes, but I think I’ll refrain because my penis has already had plenty of attention.

It’s a good thing my teacher was a hippie that backpacked through South America in the 80’s, otherwise he would have sent me home. He just asked the class if they would also like to take the final naked to cut the tension of the test. No one disrobed. Except for my teacher. After taking the test I decided to stay naked and soon got chased down by campus security. The chase inevitably turned into a Benny Hill episode with all the funny sounds and sped up footage.

Busted

2011-04-30T03:40:00.000-06:00

Geezus Christ I’ve got more important things to do than wait for this bus. It is very important that I get to my job where I can get hassled by disgruntled customers. It’s about time! That bus is five minutes late. That’s five minutes of my life I could have spent waiting in line at the post office, or wait for my girlfriend to get ready, or wait on the phone for customer service to service, or wait in traffic, or wait in a waiting room, or wait for a writer to stop giving examples. Some important person at RTD is going to hear from me about this… after I wait on hold.

When the bus driver finally opened its door for me, I looked the bus driver in the eye and said, “Hop to it Jeeves! I need to get to work, but first I need to get to the thrift store before everyone buys all of the ice cube trays.” The bus driver held back a courteous retort as I got on and then proceeded to pull away from the curb. When I walked to the back of the bus like Batman and Robin scaling a building, my stomach sloshed its contents until it funneled into my next organ and my brain knocked down all of the cobwebs. The other passengers also looked at me like I was the new kid in class that was strange and different.

After finding a seat in the way back where the most distinguished sit, I popped open a bottle of the bubbly—Mountain Dew—and poured it down my gullet. I mostly kept to myself as I pretended to read the financial times with a pair of glasses on the tip of my nose. “Didn’t you hear me?! I need to get to the thrift store!” The ride became more and more horrible when the bus driver stopped for more people to get on the bus. Eventually I realized I needed a new driver. “Stop here! Right NOW!” When the driver was stopping I ran past the exit in the back, all the way to the front and asked the driver where I could find another driver while people waited for me to leave the bus. “Just wait until you hear from your superior. Just wait… and then wait some more.”

Talked Some Talk

2011-04-29T02:57:00.004-06:00

Alright, I finally finished creating a profile for every online social network. It took me all day and I will still need to update my profile with every spare moment. Now I feel better knowing that people see me as a smart handsome perfectly perfect nice awesome amazing wonderful badass that also has a subtly quirky personality, brilliant sense of humor, knows how to work hard and play hard and has a properly functioning libido.

My whole life I’ve been this person that watered my azaleas everyday and sewed extra zippers on all my clothes and flossed my neighbor’s dog’s teeth and cut those spikey things that are all over new tires and slept in hog slop troughs and sat in the same chair for a week straight and ironed my shoes and chewed cud on the Sabbath/all the proper holidays.

I posted pictures of myself to make sure all of the people I’ll ever talk to—which will instantaneously become my friends—see me as a great person. I put up these pictures because pictures of actions speak louder than words. One of the pictures is of me helping two old ladies walk across a road at the same time. Another is of me putting my arm around people and groups of people while I laugh and put a beer up to my lips. I also put up a picture of me standing next to super hot women that I coaxed into standing in the same picture with me while I cracked a sly cool smile.

I joined a grassroots tree planting organization so I could get a picture of me planting a tree next to chopped down trees. I posted pictures of tattoos to imply that I have a bunch of badass tattoos. I think I’ll actually go out and get real tattoos and maybe a few piercings so people can notice my badassness all the time.

I feel so much better that more people know who I am, like Bernard Wilson in Nantucket MA who just became my friend officially by me accepting him as a friend with a few clicks of my mouse. He would have never known me without these social networks.

Now that I have a lot more friends I can get more people to give me attention, sympathize for me and listen to me babble on about my day which was very interesting. This morning I actually brushed my teeth with my roommate’s toothbrush by accident and didn’t realize it until I was finished. I’m so silly sometimes! My other roommate had the nerve to spill milk on the kitchen table when she ate her cereal this morning and didn’t clean it up and just left it there and I doubt she has even cleaned it up. Isn’t that messed up? I am such a victim.

My boss yelled at me and then apologized and gave me a raise and made me employee of the year. Look at this funny picture and or video I didn’t take or make, but I did find it on the internet. I’m really good at finding those things on the internet so I’m an amazing person. So are you, you’re good at that, too.

A Study in Chocolate

2011-04-17T20:47:00.001-06:00

There’s a chocolate chunk of murder melting in the colourless mixing bowl of life, and my duty is to eat it even though it is melting, and lick it off my fingers, and expose every morsel of it to my taste buds. Well… it’s more like theft then murder, or murder and dumping the body of an item belonging to someone else. Okay, it was plundered. I just used the word murder to grab your attention/to sound badass and I’m too lazy to go back and change it and I kind of stole that first sentence from a book about a consulting detective, but the book is so old it has probably disintegrated by now. Anyway, there was a theft. A blog entry theft. A bag of semisweet chocolate chip words were taken from my pantry and put into the burglar’s chocolate chip cookies. I have to find them before they are eaten or I can’t expose every morsel of it to my taste buds.

I’m looking for a trail of semisweet chocolate chip words that lead to a cookie jar of stolen blog entries. I’m going to have to use my sleuthy sleuthness to catch this bastard. If this bastard isn’t born out of wedlock then I mean to catch their butt-munching dingleberryed ass. All the years of mystery training from TV shows, movies and books has trained me to have a skilled force of sleuthiness. Maybe more like a fictional understanding of mystery solving, but anyway time to get ready.

As I dress myself I wonder if I should wear my monocle or bring my magnifying glass. Or both? Both would definitely make me look smarter and looking smart convinces people that you’re smart more than speaking smart words and sentences. I’ve done that many times before with positive results. I then wonder if I should bring my polished cherrywood pipe or my corncob pipe. The cherrywood pipe would make me look sophisticated and the corncob pipe would make me look like a hillbilly. Then I would have an excuse to wear my suspenders with no shirt and my burlap sack pants that are frayed several inches below my knee. Let’s go with the corncob pipe.

Alright, now all I need is a sidekick. All the great mystery solvers have someone to confer with. Someone dumber than they are, but slightly smarter in another subject like medicaling or body knowing or an understander of what kind of coverage one’s health insurance has. Ummm… I guess everybody I know is 150% dumber than me all the time, so I’ll have to make do with my smartphone which makes me rely on my 3G service and how long my battery lasts. Better bring my charger and stitch a few pockets on these raggedy old pants.

So now my pockets are stitched on, I’m dressed properly in hillbilly clothes and I have a sidekick with useful intelligence that fades in and out. What’s next? I guess I need to find the first clue. Where should I start to look? Well, it went missing from the netbook I am typing on because it was a blog entry that wasn’t quite entered in to my blog site. Oh, there it is, a smeared chocolate A on the back. My netbook wasn’t stolen, so the semisweet words must have glopped out digitally in the Wi-Fi radio waves and into a hacker’s computer. I’ll have to watch the movie Hackers to find out what to do next because I’m using my fictional mystery solving skills to solve this crime.

After watching Hackers I’ve decided that I need a skateboard even though I am not a brilliant hacker. I’ll have to bring this netbook with me because my memory is as bad as Jessica Fletcher’s—the modern day Jessica Fletcher, not the one from the 80’s and 90’s. Hold on. I have an email. It’s addressed from anonymous. My blog entry is attached and there’s a message that says that my piece of writing is so intelligently brilliant and super fantastic (these are the exact words used in the email) that the hacker felt bad for stealing it. Now there is a capital chocolate F on the back of my netbook. Mystery solved!

Car Care

2011-04-14T07:13:00.002-06:00

Every year I pamper my car. I give it a much needed vacation. I plan and prepare a month ahead, figuring out a precise detailed schedule of upcoming events. I pack a bag of the finest materials, stuffing it to the brink of capacity and then throw out things I don’t really need and then put in things that are more important. I constantly fret over getting things done on time. I’m one of the only people in the world that uses car aficionados as travel agents. When it becomes time to set off I load my car onto the back of a tow truck. It would be messed up if I made my car drive to its own vacation. That is kind of like making a person walk to their vacation.

This year’s destination is Detroit. Last year I took her to Saskatchewan. I don’t know why she wanted to go there. The first thing I do when I get there is rub down my car with fine oils and fragrances. I exfoliate the pores of the paint and metal to rejuvenate its 17 year old body. Modern day cars age similarly to a dog; a Ford ages like a cockroach, moves like a sloth and is as tough as a roll of toilet paper. Classic cars age like humans. I then proceed to massage the muscles of 185 horsepower which ends up making me busy all night and into the early morning. Just one horse has plenty of muscles. I then coat the car in mud and put slices of pumpkin on its headlights.

After I wash her off I then put her in a four foot deep swimming pool of boiling hot water and hand it a motor oil daiquiri. After her fifth daiquiri she becomes moody and turns her engine on and off and honks her horn impulsively and chaotically. She then keeps demanding more to drink, but I cut her off and then she spews oil out of her grill. Then I disconnect her battery and put her to sleep. She had a long couple of days being pampered and needed her rest. Tomorrow we’re going boating on the Great Lakes.

Saturday April 9, 2011 3:20 AM

2011-04-09T03:42:00.001-06:00

Dear Journal,

I use a capital J because I’m addressing you as a person. You’re exactly what I need right now. Someone that’ll listen and let me vent. You’re kind of like a crappy psychologist or therapist that only listens. You let me figure things out on my own. Seeing my own thoughts written down makes me see things better. Alcohol helps me out at first and maybe even for a while, but then I vomit and then I see things all jumbled and convoluted like a partially digested pizza, pickle and green chili cheese fries. Then I start to feel down because all that delicious food was wasted and my stomach didn’t get to taste it that long and my intestines didn’t get to taste it at all. Then I go and do the complete opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing which is ramble on with my mouth instead of transcribe with my fingers which is just like hitting on a transvestite instead of a woman.

I’m writing right now because there is nobody to listen to me. I can’t afford to pull a crappy psychologist out of bed at this hour. Crappy or not they over charge. Plus I can’t afford to blab the ears off of a licensed psychologist at any hour. I can only afford the random bus rider that can’t move because the bus is packed. If I’m going from Aurora to downtown that’s great, but if its only from Cheeseman Park to downtown I don’t get much off my chest. You’d think the longer you’re crammed on a bus the more things would stick to your chest because there isn’t any room for things to move, but it doesn’t.

If other people saw this journal entry I’d freak out. I can’t believe some people actually read other peoples journals. That’s messed up. Some people just lack couth. With all the latest technology around these days I’d be afraid of someone posting this on a blog or something. Then everyone would know all of my inner most secrets. The secrets that are very secretive that I don’t want people reading. They would find out how secretive of a person I really am and about that one time that I wrote a very detailed account of something crazy that I wouldn’t normally divulged to a random person. Except for the random bus rider that isn’t listening to me anyway because there is also a person talking too loud on their cell phone right next to us.

Good Readers Borrow, Great Readers Steal

2011-04-02T02:13:00.000-06:00

The newspaper gets read by my eyes daily. I read about sportsmen playing sport, politicians talking words, artists showing combined altered material, movie times playing talkies and critics critiquing the level of quality. Afterward I throw it out really fast if the opposite political party says something I don’t like or if the sports team that plays in my city loses or if it’s on fire (sometimes I read by candlelight). Sometimes if I have enough newspapers I didn’t throw out too fast, I build a large paper-mâché tree in my backyard. I go all out and make the tree out of balloons first with my old balloon animal making skills before I cover it with newspaper.

I don’t buy my newspaper. I used to steel my neighbor’s newspaper, but they caught on. Now I drive around town and pick one up at random. It’s okay, it’s no big deal because the paperboy or paper-person comes back and delivers a new one. I’ve sat in my car before reading the newspaper I stole to see what happens. I don’t read by candlelight in my car; too many newspapers catch on fire that way. If it’s still early in the morning and the sun isn’t up I read with a flashlight like a burglar. Burglar’s read the newspaper with a flashlight.

There is one thing I don’t like about reading a newspaper is that my fingers get all black like I’m being processed in a police station. Not that I’ve been in a police station before. I’ve been in a police station before. I can’t lie to you. It wasn’t for what you think it was. I got caught steeling magazines from mailboxes. Newspapers I guess are no big deal. Whenever I’m stealing a newspaper cops just waive at me and say, ”Good Morning.” Never pull your mail out of a mailbox when a cop is driving by.

Drag of Fag

2011-03-25T01:34:00.003-06:00

I found this fag just lying on the ground all beaten up and oddly contorted. It was right in front of a Bed Bath & Beyond. I looked up to see if there was a culprit and twenty feet away there was a sign leaning up against a wall that read GOD HATES FAGS. And I thought, he probably does, fags are disgusting and not accepted among most of the population. I didn’t touch the fag. I just stared at it. I wondered if I should remove this fag from this previously pristine 3x6’ patch of beautiful grass. I then wondered if the shopping center had fag removers. I immediately realized that there wouldn’t be something so specialized and there is probably one person that cleans up all the trash just lying around on the property.

People just looked at me looking at the fag as they walked by. I think they thought I liked fags because I was standing right over the fag as if I was preventing anyone from touching the fag. I wanted to touch the fag like a curious animal about to experience something new.

Despite it being disgusting (disgusting can be interesting) I grabbed the crooked stick with my two fingers and put the tip in my mouth. Eh, I really don’t understand why people make such a big deal about fags anyway. I don’t even know why people protest against these things when it’s really none of their business what people do with their lives. I then grabbed a flamer—I mean a lighter—and accidentally tried to light the end with the tip in my mouth. So I flipped it around, packed the brown stuff deeper into the hole, lit the end and inhaled the fag.

Bread and Butter and Caviar

2011-03-17T22:07:00.002-06:00

The quarterback just asked out the cheerleader. I just leaked this information to the 24-hour news channels and they paid me good money. The other day I was the first to tell them that lavender soap cures gangrene, but only if it’s ingested and washed over the gangrene vigorously. I also leaked new information to them that gangrene was a serious medical problem and not a malicious street gang that does drive-by shootings and sells drugs. Then they were about to ask me if I knew how to get rid of gangs, but then stopped mid-sentence because they said a gang related black male shooting is their bread and butter… and caviar.

I anonymously tip and leak information to the news channels on a regular basis. Back in high school I didn’t get paid for leaking information, but I got to know all the drama queens and drama gossipers that now work at all the news channels. Most of the time I don’t even have to leave my house because somehow these tips and bits of information just pop into my head. I don’t know where it all comes from, it just pops in my head, but I know it’s all true because I do fact checking with a team of fact checkers that check facts. They are mostly housewives, but some of them are barfly’s.

Sometimes if there is a light news day I’ll drink a few energy drinks and type impromptu into the teleprompter the news for hours on end. I really just type a bunch of little bits of news that weren’t significant in the past, but are now significant because they need to fill air time. Technically this can be called the olds instead of the news, but its presented as ‘this just in’ news and it is new to the general public. I usually talk about stuff like how ugly Tiffany Williams’s shoes are, and how Bobby McDonald stinks to high heaven and he needs to take a shower more than once a week, and that Mr. Johansson and Mrs. Davenport were seen rolling around in a bunch of acrylic paint on the large art tables in the art room, and Kelly Kapowski was seen kissing Mr. Belding, and students might soon be making more money flipping burgers part-time than teachers get paid teaching or teachers might be replaced with monkeys and dolphins.

Write Next to the Righting

2011-03-13T04:25:00.000-06:00

What should I write? Hmmm… I should probably write something you’ll understand. I should probably write it in a mindlessly flippant manner and give it a witty title, or a title that is witty but has nothing to do with this entry. Or we could just hang out. Watch some TV, play a video game, color in our coloring books, color in reading books, color the walls, defeather a chicken or watch YouTube videos on how to defeather a chicken because now I’m curious. I should probably put out a bowl of jelly beans, and cheese and crackers for those who are diabetic, and pretzels for those that are diabetic and lactose intolerant, and gross inedible food items for those that are not from this planet (a proper host caters to all types).

We could just sit around and talk about TV shows that we watch and claim that it is the best TV show on right now and we should all watch it. We could tell each other to just watch one episode; just watch another episode or two because that wasn’t a good episode to watch; never mind, me and Charles watch our favorite TV show on the Netflix Instant Watch every Friday night and we have a great time, right Charles? RIGHT CHARLES?!

We can all read the same book and talk about what was good, or one of us can read the book aloud for the lazy, illiterate and the aliens that can’t read but can understand English. Or we can just make up our own stories but try and not use the premise from the TV shows that we like. I know from personal experience that if one eats a lot of jelly beans it really gets the creative juices (sugars) going.

We could also just sit in a room uncomfortably and not say a word. We can just sit and watch my food go bad. We could just continue to sit and say nothing and try our hardest to make us feel uncomfortable. We can cross our arms while our eyes glare, our nostrils can slightly flare and our teeth can grind. Some of us could start hissing (the aliens would probably start that), growling and snapping (like a snapping turtle).

Or we can just get drunk and drunk box each other and then cry on our shoulders and apologize for punching each others teeth out and since we’re on a roll we can apologize for all the little messed up things we’ve done to each other over the years and then pass out.

I'm Doing Great!

2011-03-08T01:29:00.000-07:00

Hey, you guys! HEY! I’m yelling at you from across the room! Hey, yeah, come over here. Alright, I’ll walk over there. Hey guys, it’s me. Haven’t seen you all in awhile. Where have I been? What’s going on? I’m glad you asked because now the attention is completely on me. Well, let me see… let me stall a little bit so I can have your attention just that little bit longer. I think it was August of 2009 when we last conversed.

Back then you still had that crappy El Camino you were holding on to since high school. And you, you used to have that crazy mohawk that went from ear to ear instead of forehead to neck; now you’re sporting dreads, I like it, it works, but it doesn’t always on a lot of people. And you got rid of that stupid little dog that was in your purse. She died… oh I’m sorry that’s horrible. My… dog… died… also. What kind of dog? Um, he was a dog… a labrador retriever mixed with rat terrier. He would catch himself and return himself to me. He would never get lost.

After that I just had to get away. Thanks for understanding and putting your arm over my shoulder and handing me a fresh beer. I’ll remember this the next time I’m desperate for attention. Well, I went away to Costa Rica and opened my own bar. Yeah, wow, it was great until one of the customers jumped over the bar and stabbed me in the neck; a mere millimeter away from my jugular. I was lucky to survive. Thanks, I’m glad I survived, too.

I then realized I had to see the world and I wasn’t going to wait for another person to try and take my life again. So I packed my bags and saw the world. First I went to New Zealand and smoked the finest weed in the Shire with the hobbits. Then I went to Tasmania off the coast of Australia and filmed a few cartoons with Mr. Bugs Bunny himself. I then went to Indonesia and surfed a tsunami with Magic Johnson and Kid Rock while he filmed a video for his newest single.

After telling Kid Rock he sucked I went over to Japan and played Super Mario Bros. 3 with the people who developed the original 8-bit Nintendo. Eventually I craved Chinese food and when I got there I became a celebrity overnight because they thought I was Kevin Smith. That soon lead me to become the leader of China and so I turned their whole country back into a dictatorship, but only because I mixed up the word democracy with dictatorship. I then quickly turned them into a socialist country, but only to annoy the hell out of my dad.

When I got to Europe I knew a lot of stories would come out of this place. Oh… you gotta go walk your cat. And you have to help her walk her cat. And you have to go give your El Camino a tune up because it’s so crappy. Well, it has been nice talking you. I’ll be here if you ever want to give me more attention.

Gold Star

2011-03-06T02:05:00.002-07:00

Ahhh! That wraps up another week of school. I just finished grading all the tests from yesterday. I’m a teacher at one of the local public schools. I graded them all in my private office in the west wing —not the private office in the east wing— in my huge humongous mansion. The private office in the east wing is my wife’s. The private office on the second floor of the west wing is my six year old daughter’s private office. I can’t lie, Jeffery my butler actually finished grading all the tests, but don’t tell my principal or I’ll get the ruler. And if my wife sees the red slap marks on my rear end again then she’ll think I have taken in another mistress.

I’m about to go out golfing with a friend of mine, he’s the Governor actually. I have to lend him my back up set of golf clubs and I’ll probably end up paying for his game and drinks before and afterward. He is a Governor after all. They don’t really pay the high up government officials that much, but I hear their secretaries make loads of money. I don’t really feel like playing golf with him. I know other teachers from the golf club are going to see me with him all dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He’ll probably get drunk on some cheap beer and play like crap.

I don’t really know why they pay Governor’s as much as they do anyway. I don’t think they really work that much and they make like twenty grand a year on average on top of their regular wages with all the soda machines they put in government buildings. All they really do is talk and everybody around them does all the physical work. I only work nine months out of the year, but I usually work as a camp counselor in the summer to make ends meet and pay to maintain my seven cars, pay for my wife to take vacations every month, a new swimming pool every year, all the new electronics that come out, all the new toys that come out for my daughter, new golf clubs every year, my sausage lovers club membership, etc, etc, etc.

I’m starting to have second thoughts, or these are third thoughts about going to that golf game. What kind of cars do poor people drive anyway? Oh, wait, poor people ride the bus. He’ll probably show up a half hour late claiming that he had to catch the next bus because he was having baby mama problems, but actually got a little too stoned in the middle of the day and forgot what time it was. These people are all the same and completely predictable. They reap all the benefits from the state while other people are actually working really hard. People who work really hard deserve a gold star in my book.

Speaking of working really hard. I need to go work hard on my golf game with other people who actually care about their golf game. But first, I’ll have Jeffery call it off with this Governor fellow.

The Realm of Great Television

2011-03-05T01:29:00.000-07:00

Deep in the realm of late night and early morning existed a TV show. One show, shown one time and one man saw it. The journey was difficult to get there. It consisted of much alcohol, marijuana, junk food, many days without showering and many many hours of watching television. Who knows if the show really ever existed? But I’m told by a very classified source (that even reporters can’t get) that this TV show actually aired on national (maybe cable) television.

The show had everything the FCC likes. It had nice wholesome nudity, loving curse words, intellectually engaging violence, midget wrestling, lizard karate, toddlers running with scissors, elderly people breaking open nuts, Charlie Sheen preaching the word of the lord, cows and chickens barbecuing humans and much much more. My source said that this show couldn’t have been a hallucination or a dream, but only a far traveled journey into a world of fantastic television. A world without rules or boundaries on creativity.

Nobody directed it, wrote it, produced it or acted in it because I couldn’t find it on IMDb under ‘awesomest TV show ever’. The only rational explanation is that it spawned itself from the manic orgy blur of show after show after show after show after show after show on my source’s television. I asked other people what they saw during the late night and early morning of this day and the only answer I could get is infomercials, the Emergency Broadcasting System and episodes of Saved by the Bell (the rare ones when they were in middle school). I went back to my source and he told me it definitely wasn’t an old episode of Saved by the Bell.

Politician Blue Ribbon

2011-03-03T04:59:00.002-07:00

I had a meal with a politician today to discuss the urgent despicable situations that are going on in the world that we need to improve. It was just a politician, nobody in particular. I watched UPS drop this politician off in an Amazon product box. The day before I was told I would be eating veal with mushroom and red wine sauce and red wine to drink, but instead we ate spaghetti with meatballs and Pabst Blue Ribbon. The politician told me Pabst Blue Ribbon has won many blue ribbon awards for the finest tasting beer many years in a row by using only the best and most expensive ingredients. The spaghetti was flown in all the way from Italy where spaghetti was invented.

I soon forgot that I was promised a gourmet meal because I was told I had ate something better than inhumane baby cow with fungus and grape juice. Our highly intelligent conversation continued after we chugged most of the twelve pack. We talked about that one war in that one country and that other war in that other country, but we abstained from talking about that other other war because we should just mind our own business and let them hash it out. The politician told me the President would have joined us today, but he only drank big corporate beer like Bud Light and not fine gourmet beer because he wants to support his local brewery.

We delved deeper into the conversation with our lips, vocal cords, tongue and unwavering sharp smartness. People started to crowd around the White House fence, mere feet from our picnic. Yes, a picnic. It started out in the dining room and we had such a grand old time we decided to take it out to the lawn because it was so nice outside. People standing at the fence tried to contribute to the conversation, but we wouldn’t have that so we threw beer cans at any imbecile that tried to talk to us. The politician threw a full beer instead of an empty one (on purpose? I don’t know) which really dispersed the crowd. Not only did the can make some poor bloke’s head bleed, but it also sprayed everyone after it hit the ground.

Our conversation went so well we rolled around in the grass laughing and giggling afterward. I had such a great time talking about urgent despicable situations I lost myself in the politician’s eyes. I soon forgot about the world and voted then and there for this politician with a cell phone app created to vote super early. Then the politician abruptly ran away, got back into the Amazon product box, the UPS guy loaded it up in the van and drove away. I wonder what it cost to ship a politician with Amazon Prime. Does a politician come from an independent wholesaler?

Libyatarian

2011-03-02T04:22:00.001-07:00

My country is overthrowing me. It’s messed up man. What did I do? Geezus. I gave everyone free cokes and lavender soap and VHS cassettes of old episodes of Gunsmoke — that’s twenty years worth of that TV show taped off of TV Land by me personally (without commercials that suck and brainwash). I never brainwashed anyone. I never brainwashed anyone. I never brainwashed anyone. I never brainwashed any one person one at a time.

I just put in a sophisticated sewage system in my country, too. It diverted all the crap into the poor crappy shantytowns away from the entire normal well to do population that only really matter because they pay taxes. This isn’t cool bro. I totally did this country a solid man. My approval rating last month was 99% which was tallied by my most faithful armed associates. It doesn’t make any sense. The people that are rioting to overthrow me are young; they aren’t really even technically citizens yet, so I don’t really listen to them. My youngest illegitimate daughter is 27 and I haven’t listened to anything she has said her whole life. That’s because she isn’t really a citizen yet. In three years I will listen to her.

I found some nice aged parmesan cheese in the back of my refrigerator this afternoon. Aged to perfection like me. I’ve been running this country for 47 years. As loyal as parmesan cheese deliciousness. Sometimes I shred parmesan cheese on the documents I sign and then rub it all over the paper and then on the sides of my neck. Organic parmesan cheese of course. Only a great president would do these things and take the time to make me and documents smell delicious.

I don’t know what the big deal is with these people. Golly geez gosh geezus. Just don’t listen to them. If you ignore a problem long enough someone will come in and shake parmesan cheese on it and solve the problem. My cheese is strictly for documents and my neck, so someone should do us all a favor and give up their cheese. If this country keeps on sucking and rioting to overthrow me and nobody gives up their cheese I guess I’ll have to find another country to run. I was kind of thinking Egypt maybe, but I think they make their cheese with goats milk.

Filmed Movie

2011-03-01T04:01:00.004-07:00

One time I made a movie while I was watching a movie. It all started because the movie I was watching was boring and since movie making is easy as pie I made one. My movie made it to all the famous independent film festivals that only the elite get to see first. I didn’t even get to go to my own viewing at these film festivals. I only got to stare at the large breasts of the renaissance festival fair maidens and eat a huge ass turkey leg.

My film was even about film festivals and how they don’t let anyone cool in like me even after I offered to pay ten bucks to see my own movie. My movie got poor reviews, but everyone kind of clapped while looking around to see if other people were clapping after the movie. I should have won all the awards for it, even the coveted Grammy award for best movie picture ever made ever.

I even put in elite actors in the movie; Nicholas Cage, Jon Bon Jovi, his lesser known female cousin Bon Bon Jovi, Carol Burnett, Tits McGee, Barbara Streisand, Milli but no Vanilli, Margaret Thatcher and Greg Proops. The set got hectic. Barbara Streisand and Tits McGee fought about who had the biggest, most beautiful and all around best toenails. Jon Bon Jovi and Barbara Streisand had a sing off every hour, so twice. Milli was hesitant to join in, but he forgot his tapes and tape player.

Nicholas Cage and Margaret Thatcher kept making out and eventually continued this while debating political stuff. Carol Burnett and Gregg Proops were great, they brought me my tea and cookies every ten minutes, changed my clothes for me and even wrote my name correctly in my director’s chair. They never tried to make me laugh. Which is good because it strains my abdomen and gives me bad cramps.

Up and About After a Pout

2009-08-12T04:42:00.001-06:00

Around this time of year I usually go around climbing into the top of fast-food restaurant’s soda fountain machines as discretely as possible and contaminate everyone’s ice at the cost of my own comfort (which is priceless). But this summer I live in a apartment building that has a swamp cooler. It is physically impossible for a man my size to jump inside a swamp cooler (not that I tried), though I have contorted myself into some tiny soda fountain machines out of desperation. The swamp cooler produces beautiful breathtaking coolness, but the inside of the machine is full of gross sweaty cramped hotness.

I feel like a king in my accommodating studio apartment castle. On my demand I have my own personal jester to perform. I beckon him by changing the channel to 72 and he performs old reruns of Futurama and South Park. When I become bored with my jester I send him off with the effort of one finger and retreat to my personal library and surround myself with books. In the middle of the room I build a large thrown of books, which are similar to large stones, all the way up to the ceiling with a stairway leading up to it. Today I was comfortable for awhile until my personal message carrier notified me that one of my friends would like to meet at the local pub that very evening to imbibe copious amounts of ale.

I tore down part of my stairway scrambling to my personal message carrier, leaving the destruction for my many peasants to clean up. I returned a message saying, ‘Why go to the pub when a king can bring one to his castle?’ I did not receive a message immediately in return from my friend. Perhaps he wasn’t aware of my high social status causing him great confusion, but later that hour he returned a message saying, ‘Because many fair maidens will not be flirting about in your castle, but only our royal asses sitting about until we’d part ways with only our hands to please ourselves… I‘m sick of pleasing you :-p’ I returned, ‘You’re lucky you’re my comrade or I’d banish you to the dungeon for revealing my lack of intelligence right in front of all of me. I will have my servants dress me in lavish garments and I will meet you at the pub after the sun sets in the west. Good day sir!’

I snapped for my servants and posed waiting with my arms out so they could strip me of yesterdays rags. Being stripped naked by other people is my favorite part of dressing in lavish garments. I shook in stripped-to-nakedness-by-other-people anticipation. It built and built until I realized I sold my servants last week for a better jester and personal message carrier. I wanted to be stripped naked by other people. I still want to be stripped naked by other people. I flung myself into a royal whine, wailing my hands in the air as I ran in circles unto flopping into a snot-nosed face blubbering weep on my four-poster bed (behind curtains so it didn‘t really happen because no one saw me in that state).

After crying myself to sleep I had a vision in a dream. I visualized being undressed by hot fair maidens who imbibed copious amounts of ale. All I really needed was my daily three hour nap because I awoke refreshed and I new my vision would come true. I pampered myself to my annual bath (a week early) in a handcrafted large basin with rose pedals and a soap that came all the way from the Springs of the Irish. I just finished dressing myself in hand-woven lavish garments knowing the evening will bid me a fine passage to it’s removal by hot fair maidens. My personal scribe was nice enough to scribble today’s happenings onto a digital scroll as if it were me myself who was the scribe who scribbled on a scroll. You can tell the difference because I would have portrayed myself for the true greatness that I really am.

One Life to Live

2009-08-09T23:00:00.002-06:00

When I was younger and someone told me how hard of a life they lived I’d tell them that was nothing and proceeded with explaining why my life was harder. If kids at school picked on them so did the kids at my school, but also at my parent’s church and in my rough suburban neighborhood. I was completely honest of course, I’d try wholeheartedly to keep my detailed accounts non-fiction in origin, but if a detail popped in my head that I wasn’t sure happened I would say it anyway because I was sure I suppressed it at one point in my life to cope with the anguish.

I’d highlight all the mentally harder things that happened because mental anguish was harder to endure than physical anguish. “My family didn’t have a VCR until I was almost fifteen… cable TV until I was fourteen… and I never had a TV in my room ever!“ I did this so they could see how amazing of a person I was and that they were silly for complaining about living within asbestos riddled walls when I had so much of a harder life. They’d sooner or later come to see that they had it easy (because of being so stupid partially due to being exposed to asbestos but mostly because they were stupid by nature) and then they would feel sorry for me.

Whenever I need attention from my fellow peers I bring up the anguish I’ve endured and they empathize for me. Whenever they are complaining about something I just bring up all the harder anguish I’ve been through and they eventually quit their petty complaining. I usually start crying if they don’t and that always makes them see. If a person doesn’t think I endured more than them I continue to list off everything and it’s good I have kept a detailed log to read off. After a few pages they realize my amazing strength.

I ultimately go on to tell of the great things I’ve done to show them what I’ve overcome to succeed. I managed a pizza delivery place and made the business more money than it ever made ever before. When I was a mere sixteen years of age I aced my on road driver’s license test the fist time in a full-blown horrific blizzard. I’ve gone from no VCR to this amazing level of greatness.

Nobody has endured what I’ve endured. I’m a better person for enduring more than other people and they are less of a person with their pampered lives. My life has been the hardest to live and I’m still breathing to talk about it. I’ve never seen anyone with the determination that I have. To overcome what I have overcome inspires every person I meet to continue to endure their struggles even though mine were worse struggles. I stay a humble person trying to make the world a better place. It’s good I’m persistent because then people would never have become inspired. It makes me feel good to know I’ve overcome such a suffrage more than anyone else.

These days I’m more brilliantly informative about how and who I tell. Nowadays I go to soup kitchens and impoverished neighborhoods and inspire them to overcome their strife’s that are less harder than my strife’s. Eventually, I see my self maturing to a all new level beyond most people and inspiring young ones with my captivating trials and tribulations. I’ll visit playgrounds and schools and have them gather around me in sheer awe as I captivate their wonderfully developing minds. I’ll teach them to “aim for the stars and don’t look back,” a saying I just came up with. Sometimes I astonish myself.

Soon the whole world will see, they will see a fantastic made for TV movie about my life that will win the lifetime achievement award. That’ll do it. That is something that will really solidify what really happened in my life and it also gives me a chance to remember all of the details during the writing process of the movie. Everyone will see it because it will be on TV and everyone in the world has a TV.

For Love of the Story

2009-08-08T06:32:00.002-06:00

I love stories so much I make out with them. Metaphorically I do. If it was possible I would physically. Rubber lips on the book wouldn’t cut it, though they would be almost as tempting as my first playboy and the foldout of Miss May, but that is creepy and weird. I wouldn’t do that… because I’m older now and more mature… and I get bitches all the time… I’m making out with someone right now. Actually, I’m making out with multiple people. Two women to be specific. It’s hard to type this, but it seems important enough to mention it right now in this casual manner.

The story would have to become a living, breathing soul for me to engage in a sloppy lip slobbering make out session. It’s the escapism that I love so much about stories. Every now and then I catch myself confessing my love to my books, audiobooks and DVD‘s, but when they don’t react to my deep words I realize they haven’t become a living being yet. The only thing that stops stories from becoming a mortal individual is being encased in the physical ink and paper, and whatever DVD’s and CD’s are made of.

The material outside is something used to show the story, the real story is in the words and the performance of the actors. Do I like a woman because she is all dressed up in hot ass tight jeans and or her naked body, or because of the words she speaks? Oh… its obvious though because of that one saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ or translated to modern day speech ‘don’t get horny because of her sexy ass ‘cause she could be a annoying dumb ass’.

Women are kind of like stories. They are full of drama and if you don’t stop them they’ll keep on telling you their life story even if you never met them. Their cover (cosmetics) can be deceiving, but sometimes they turn out to be a good read you keep going back to. If they are really good you never put it back on the bookshelf and you read it over and over again to see what you haven’t seen before. I sleep with my books and it isn’t always intentional. Even if they are good or bad sometimes you leave them somewhere and if you like them enough you’ll go back to get them, but sometimes they won’t be where you left them because someone else picked them up. Occasionally you buy them, sometimes you steal them from a business that rents them (and you accrue late charges), and sometimes they stare at you until you go over and see what they’ve got to say.

From time to time I can almost sense the story is about to bust out of its material shell, but it could just be that the story has gotten my creative juices going and I’m just imagining it. The type of creative juices that can be used in a sloppy lip slobbering make out session.

Succumbed to the Power of Laze

2009-08-04T01:08:00.003-06:00

I have two weeks off until school starts and I’m too broke to take a vacation or even go out and do stuff. I haven’t had any responsibilities or deadlines for the past week and my concept of time has strayed because of it. I thought yesterday was Saturday until I caught myself being enlightened by the words of the lord by a charismatic man begging for money in $500 shoes at 5 in the morning on TV. I think I watched old episodes of Red Dwarf and Little Britain on Netflix: Instant View for two days instead of what I thought was one day. Today I caught myself sitting on the crapper for who knows how long after dozing off for a bit; I couldn’t stand up because my legs were numb.

It’s easy to succumb to the power of laze when my biggest obligation is to feed and hydrate myself so I don‘t die. I try to fill my day with doing free things like brushing teeth, playing bingo by myself, and draining the spittle-trap on random wind instruments, but my day usually becomes consumed by laziness. My TV, computer and laptop can be in one of those moods and whenever they feel neglected they’ll either cut me down or seduce me to stay immobile.

Whenever I need to be reminded that I live in a world full of other people I go out my front door and walk around my neighborhood. I did that today. It can be strange at first when one isn’t outside everyday like normal. The streets and sidewalks are sometimes full of people like a bad zombie movie and other times empty like a post-apocalyptic movie. Some people materialize out of nowhere while others can be heard but not seen. They all move in a direction I am not, but they still fill up space in the world. My mind strayed to thinking that if humans drained themselves of water then we would be able to fit more of us on this planet. Faces on people were strange, almost alien. I hoped my face wasn’t as hideous with large bug eyes, snot encrusted nostrils, drooling slacked-jaws, and riddled with face pustules (but I was wrong, my face does look like that). Spoken voices were odd to my ears like a backward playing record with hidden satanic meaning as people walked past.

I then began to realize my own point-of-view and thought how unfortunate it was that I will always see things from my head that sits on my shoulders. I thought about the advantages of having a detachable head or the ability to morph my face to another part of my body. Instead of going to a doctor or having an x-ray done I could look myself and see inside my body; inflated gallbladder, broken leg, moldy veins, wham bam diagnosed this, diagnosed that. I could move my eyes down to my nut sack when a chick goes down on me and amaze her with four balls. Women can really become amazed at the capabilities of a mans reproductive organ.

It took me almost a whole day to come back to reality. I’m back to normal now, but I'm also back on the way to being a hermit again because I’m back in my apartment. My TV and my computer aren’t speaking to me, but my laptop is young and just wants attention.

Succeeding at Success

2009-07-27T05:12:00.001-06:00

If I want to have a successful life I need to succeed at something. Can I be successful at doing nothing successful? If so I’ve already succeeded. I really want to write about how I have these mischievous adventures about stealing menstrual pads and dancing the tango with police officers at three in the morning in empty parking lots, but I should probably appeal to the masses some how if I ever want to become a successful writer. Only talented people make it into pop culture, so I need to change.

If I’m going to do that I need to get my mind in that mindset. I’ll get married tomorrow to start, that should get things going. Nothing looks more like your right on track than getting married. A successful relationship wouldn’t look normal without marriage. I‘ll look into starting a house and buying a long-term relationship (I think that‘s how it goes), so I can have some of those zany family moments to write about some day. I’ll have to have kids to do that. I’ll try not to force those zany family moments because I need writing material, unless if I’m desperate. It’ll be a small price to pay (looking weird) to have something good to write.

Creating a family takes time though. It takes a long time, and I want to start as soon as possible because I really need to do this. After I write this blog I’ll go buy a new wardrobe, and some clothes to put in it. I’ll only get name brand clothes of course. I’ll get a suit, also, so I can someday become a prestigious businessman, lawyer or doctor because those are the most successful professions to be in. I’ll make writing a side hobby, so I can really be a successful person. I’ll cut my tattoos off because I can‘t waste any time waiting to get a proper tattoo removal. I’ll comb my hair, I’m sure there’s a internet site that can assist me in finding the correct technique, starting with getting rid of my Flintstones animal rib comb. I’ll start subjecting myself to only mainstream music, movies and books. All of this shouldn’t be too hard, if I forget what to do I’ll just look at the person next to me and see what they’re doing and just mimic their actions.

I’ll start personifying myself as a noble person. I will set an example for everyone else. I’ll be the moralest moralist on the block. People will start looking up to me because I’ll be the first person to have the complete ability to judge what is and what isn’t the correct thing to do on everything. When I’m in a moral debate with someone (or someone’s) I will probably stand for the exact opposite of what they think because they need to be wrong. I’m going to be the only superior being there. Unless if there can be more than one superior being? I don’t know, I’m so unsure about that. I can’t make up my mind. I’m having a hard time deciding if that is possible. Can there? For some reason my mind can’t figure that out right now. I really wish there was someone else I could look up to and talk to about this, but I‘m really not sure if there is anybody who can think at my high level of thinking.

This is a hard thing to assess. I must be having one of those blond moments. No, wait I’m not, there can be multiple superior people in the same world because multiple superheroes can exist at the same time! I figured it out! The American Justice League is a perfect example of that. Villain’s and superheroes can‘t though. I’ll have to exude a superior attitude towards villain’s so I can be more superior. Villain’s as in unmoral people who lack morals. If they can’t read my body language or tone of my voice (most villains have feeble minds) I’ll shoot them with my morality taser gun that I invent. The taser gun will juice them with 800,000 volts of my morals, but at the same time make them dumber so they can’t become more of a superior moralists. The taser gun will also remove an eye and a tooth.

Alright, I’m already feeling good about myself existing in existence successfully. I’m excited now. I’m so excited I feel like getting up and dancing, but not with just anybody. It needs to be a real moral person like a police officer or something and it needs to be a special moment of sharing so nobody can be there. Like it’s an intimate relationship with morals, like in a parking lot in the middle of the night. It needs to be an exciting dance though like the salsa or the tango to express my true excitement. I don’t know if I can wait that long though. I need to do something right now. I’ll do something moral for someone, but it has to be exciting so I can show that I’m excited about being this new person. I’ll give someone a present. I’ll give it to someone in need. I’ll do it in a exciting manner because I‘m excited. I know what I can do! I’ll steal menstrual pads for a bunch of menstruating homeless women. It’s exciting and a good deed!

The Social Interaction of the Unnamed Beings

2009-07-21T10:18:00.002-06:00

Day One:

I have failed to reach the exact location of the species sought to be studied. I believe I am within a hundred miles east of where I want to be. I do not have the funds to travel any further. I have made contact with a similar group of beings and who I believe is the leader, but I’m not sure. I wish I had the resources to find better intelligence because I cannot converse with any of them. I have decided to call them the lodged feces in the brain tribe for the obvious reason that they lodge feces in their brain through the ear from the time they are an infant. They speak my native language of English, but they are too dim-witted to communicate with because they utter only nonsense. I drew objects in the dirt to try and communicate with them but they thought I was playing a game. Their minds aren’t even developed to a child’s in our culture. I’m afraid not even an infants. I don’t even think their minds are capable of developing. They have stagnant brains that emit gaseous fumes from years of forming compost in their skulls. I can’t even find out what their tribes name is. My company hired me a translator, but I can’t even understand him. His words are completely garbled. Their words consist of English words, but there is no connection from one word to the next. The so-called translator was so intent on trying to converse with me that he sprayed it and didn’t say it.

Day Two:

I awoke on the outskirts of their village. I was honestly too scared to stay in town for fear that they would wake me in the middle of the night spraying their garbled language and scaring the bejesus out of me. I have made camp in the woods. My plans are to concoct a disguise and enter the village as one of them. I’m going to salvage this anthropological observation to compile enough information to form a proper analysis of their social interactions.

All of them file one behind the other in a line everywhere they walk randomly sniffing the pits under their arms to make sure they bathed incorrectly for a proper level of foulness. They graze in fields masticating grass in their mouth all day, occasionally dripping and sputtering feces out their anus without stopping to pick up the muck. This eventually provides nutrients for the grass to grow, so in due course they will consume food produced by their own filth. When one of them aimlessly wanders to one side of the field they all follow. This can occur a countless amount of times a day accomplishing nothing in the process except for existence. Their fingers often get wedged in their noses (not always their own nose) in search for what they think is better sustenance and can become stuck there for the greater part of the day, unless if one of the brighter ones aids in removal.

They slap their hands in the most peculiar way when greeting each other. Some slap it this way and that way, chest bump, fist bump, shoulder bump, and thumb and fore finger snap in every imaginable combination for seconds, even minutes, as just a common single salutation. The length of time it takes for a group of them to greet each other is astounding. By the time they finish greeting they disband from the pointless encounter. They exit the group exactly how they entered achieving nothing in the gathering except for looking stylish to each other. This is probably what happens in their political hearings if they are even competent enough to establish a form of government.

The females proudly display their breasts with busting cleavage out of the top of lavish brassieres. The male’s eyes are magnetized to this display until the female slaps the male upon the side of his face with an open hand and or object in hand. Without delay the female then kisses the male on the perimeter of their food holes on the face. The male is initially flabbergasted but immediately engages in the fluid exchange. Mating occurs 5-10 minutes afterward completely devoid of a meaningful relationship.

Their sexual intercourse is executed in alleyways, bathroom stalls, automobiles, and the back few rows of theatres. They lack civility, have uncontrollable gyrations, and sometimes carry out intercourse with multiple beings of their kind. They penetrate orifices I wouldn’t think possible of penetration. They reproduce at an alarming rate and with their brain capacity I expect over population and complete self-annihilation due to absolute warfare over grazing privileges.
When a male gets angry at another male he jumps on him and they fall to the ground in a homoerotic clash tossing and groping each other in a way which closely relates to their form of intercourse, but without penetration of an orifice. This occurs on a regular basis with males who parade around with bulbous muscles. The odd thing is that these males never have sex with a male, so I have come to a conclusion that they have deep homosexual desires they constantly suppress. This desire must build when they tease other males who do act upon their emotions and seek homosexual interactions. The idiocy is astounding in this type of male. I expect them to keel over due to severe stupidity and a top-heavy body with lack of coordination, but I do not have the time to wait and witness such a thing.

I have decided to leave tomorrow due to the fact that their stupidity is contagious. It is like a disease that fills the air and which now fills my lungs. My intelligence is decreasing at an alarming rate. My brain aches as I write this. I can barley remember how to perform the easiest of functions like scratching my head. I have never seen a culture continue to exist in this condition of reckless futility in my lifetime and I hope to never experience this again. My company sent me out here because I’m a novice in this profession, but I am going to go back to my place of origin and pursue a different occupation and question my life. I can only hope that I am competent enough to get out of my sleeping bag tomorrow morning.

We

2009-07-18T21:51:00.012-06:00

A second ago my computer screen was blank. Now I’ve thought of something to write. Now you have something to read. And something more to read. And something else to fill my screen with. This blank screen is kind of like the inside of a drawing in a coloring book. My crayons are always a color of standard black, but when you look closer at the scribbling a picture emerges with bright meaning and colorful images. Your crayon traces mine, but sometimes our wax tips stick.

When reading, your mind is only a split second behind my mind that is writing. After awhile you can catch up and practically write this with me. Especially if I pause to think of what I should write and go back and spell ‘especially’ correctly because I always misspell that. I just went back and respelled ‘especially’ twice, but not this last time because I copied it and pasted it. That takes the same amount of time, so you should be able to catch up with me at any moment. I’ll slow down my thoughts and t-y-p-e e-a-c-h l-e-t-t-e-r w-i-t-h t-h-e s-a-m-e f-i-n-g-e-r. And now… you are writing this with me. We’re writing and reading at the same time. Our minds are one mind. We are we.

We should have waited another sentence to start this paragraph. It’s too early. We think it’s okay to leave it. Everybody else is going to think we have poor writing skills and then they are less likely to read what we write again. We are everybody and we don’t really care. We need to work on our communication skills to make this go smoothly. Great, now everybody knows our faults. Who cares? Again, we are everybody. Plus, everybody needs to work on their communication even when they have great communication skills. We could over communicate, hindering a chance to instantaneously communicate because our over communication can take longer than these words that are written. One could over communicate and drive the other mad. Wait, we aren’t communicating if our mind is one mind though, so that means we are one pulse of thought traveling down to our fingers.

How are we doing so far? We think we’re doing just fine. Why did we erase that last sentence? It would have made this paragraph more understandable. It wasn’t necessary, we didn’t need to convey that any further because it could really mess up what is being said here. There isn’t anything being said here, is there? Are we asking that to each other or did one of us ask that? How about that last question, also? Does that mean we’re transitioning? I didn’t think this would happen. We are transitioning. ‘We’ are transitioning to ‘you and I’.

I’m lost in you. I am you and you are me. You and I have surpassed being we and have become each other. You are strange. The flow of your thoughts flows at a different pace. I smell milk. I hear a chair creaking. It feels uncomfortable in your mind, like it’s the first day of kindergarten. Did you just sneeze? I mean did I just sneeze? How would you know? You need to take out the trash. If I get stuck in your head I’ll take it out for you. Please don’t intentionally stay away so you don’t have to take out the trash. Aren’t you weirded out also? I need to catch up with these words. Wait, if you’re in my mind aren’t you typing these words? That means I have to catch up with your words. Your typing this to instruct me to catch up with these words. That read just like I was thinking it even though you were writing it. That is clever of me I know. No shit you’re an idiot in my mind because I am in yours. You and I are toddling like babies in new diapers that haven’t been broken in yet. Are you here yet? Come on already. You’re a slow reader because you’re used to writing. I’ll s-l-o-w d-o-w-n m-y t-y-p-i-n-g.

We are we again. That was crazy. We need to be careful when reading and writing. It’s not something that we can play with. We’re scared shitless. I hope we’ve taught us a lesson now. The writer should write and the reader should read. We like reading and writing at the same time though. We’ve got to be careful not to switch over to each other. We can try it again but we could get caught in each others minds. We are scared of being away from each other. We don’t want to be what we aren’t, but at times we want to do what the other is doing. Writer’s can read and reader’s can write, but at the same time it’s pretty chaotic.

We need to type faster and read slower to escape this kind of mind-meld. It is too fascinating to leave, but we can always come back. There is always time for us to share this again. We can say that again but in a different way. We could hold on to our thoughts for a long time, but it would lose its awesomeness the next time we do this. Which one of us is holding on? We are. We both are if this is still going on because we are we. To stop this we need to stop reading and writing. Stop!

I got lost in you, but you were nice enough to lead me back to me. You were probably scared in my head. My head is usually in the clouds; my mind stares off into outer space. If you and I met like that then our minds could be similar, but any tiny bit of difference is strange because we are always stuck in our own heads. I guess you and I found a way out if you and I ever wanted to do that again.

Bloodholding

2009-07-15T23:32:00.008-06:00

Whenever I’m about to take menstrual pads unlawfully I think about all the bloodletting it can prevent and bloodholding it does on the outside of the body while being fused to the skin. My hands tremble as I realize how truly remarkable these man/woman made objects are when I stand in the feminine hygiene aisle of this ordinary grocery store. It really starts to make me nervous the closer my hands get to the package. I hope I can decide to grab it before another woman sees my perfectly explainable but odd behavior and I have to check her off my lengthy list of potential dates.

The only time I need to use a period pad is when I get bitten by a vampire every four weeks. I don’t know why I never turn into a vampire. Maybe it’s the mighty healing power of the period pad that makes me so resilient. If only all those unfortunate victims of vampires knew. When I was in middle school my vagina used to bleed every time a bully told me I had a bleeding vagina because I was a pussy ass bitch with no wiener, but whenever they’d walk away all would return to normal.
The grocery store was quiet mostly, some distant laughing and moving around of pallets. The night crew was deep into their shift, stocking everything but feminine hygiene products; a job probably performed by robots. It’s an area of the grocery store that holds great power and believed folklore like King Tutankhamun’s tomb. Every man who goes down this aisle risks his life. Every woman who sends their man to pick up a feminine hygiene product just to push his limits should seriously reconsider their actions. Thrill seekers, it could be your last thrill.

I closed my eyes and spontaneously grabbed a bag of pads. I opened my eyes but didn’t look at them. I felt the power throb in my hands. I walked out of the aisle and headed towards the front entrance/exit by walking beside the frontline of unlit registers relaxing in their trench after a hard day of battle. I was aware how close I was to enemy lines but I had captured their flag so I was booming with confidence.

I darted for the front entrance/exit, but the night crew stocker/cashier saw a very large person moving faster than they usually do, so he put in the mouthpiece that was attached to a string tied around his neck and blitzed my slow ass. He caught up with me in the parking lot offside to the trench of legal purchasing registers and tackled me from behind slamming me face first skidding on the asphalt until my huge manly sperm abundant ball sack ripped.

The menstrual pads were strewn within twenty feet above my head, soaking up the never ceasing oil that drips in the parking spaces like it was a ten year long period bleed that was finally taken care of. I didn’t know what was damaged on my body because all of the front of my body burned with ache. I rolled over and saw my shorts were soaked with blood over my crotch, I needed to stop the bleeding. The night crew guy stood up, grabbed me by the collar a yelled obscenities in my mangled face like he dreamed about succeeding at this situation many times. I looked up and back, spotted an unspotted pad and grabbed it. I told myself to fuck dignity since I had already stole these period pads anyway, shoved the pad down my shorts and held the blood close to my body.

The Voice in My Head

2009-07-14T11:24:00.003-06:00

When I walk around to get where I’m going I think, mostly about getting shit done or I wonder when the next time I’ll see a sexually attractive woman. When I sit down on chairs and couches I continue to think, but with more concentration because I’m not worried about walking. I’m glad I don’t have to concentrate on sitting or I‘d be a lot dumber. I can think about different things and deeply. I usually think about creating, writing, homework, but I can easily fade into a daydream. I can fade into a daydream at any moment actually, even if I’m being held hostage by a group of girl scouts, or mercenaries or even the dreaded girl scout mercenaries paid for by those wonderful cookies. When I lay down my thoughts become dumber. I think about donuts, pizza, aliens, sewer manhole covers and wanting to open one but not go down unless if it isn’t too smelly and there is someone with me, and rural agriculture which isn’t dumb and I don’t know why laying down triggers me to think about it.

I’ve tried to think other people’s thoughts when they are near me, but I’ve been unsuccessful. At least I think I have. Maybe their thoughts become my thoughts and I can’t realize that it’s their thoughts have become mine. I wonder if everybody’s voice in their head is the same. People with other native languages would be different definitely, but maybe people who speak the same language have the same voice. Women could have a different sounding voice than men, unless if our voices in our head are asexual.

I can’t really place what my voice sounds like, probably because I’m thinking about the voice I’m thinking with. I know I can change my voice to sound more masculine when I’m not feeling masculine enough like when I finish watching an action movie or after loosing a bar brawl. I know I can alter my inner voice to sound feminine when I dress up in woman’s clothing, but that is probably too much information. So my inner voice is either male, barely male or asexual because I know I alter my voice in different situations. Characters in movies and TV shows think with their speaking voice, but I don’t think that is accurate to real life and it is done that way so the viewer can immediately know what character is thinking.

I’m probably thinking about this because I’m too feeble minded to distinguish vocal sounds. It’s either that or it’s too inane to be discussion worthy amongst peers, family or friends. If I bring it up I could threaten the relationship status I’ve worked so hard to reach. The view of my relationships can be a bit skewed though, due to a lack of intuition on my part. To me I’m a bad ass son of a bitch to everybody else, but to them I could be just be a bad ass, just below a bad ass, bad or just an ass. So there’s a chance that there isn’t too much at stake, or anything at stake.

I think the best way to figure this out is when I’m high or drunk. If I can remember to bring it up and remember to remember afterward I think it’ll work.

Stalk of Stalkery

2009-07-12T16:57:00.002-06:00

I’ve found a new hobby. I needed one because this writing hobby of mine was getting really boring. Writing down my thoughts in a humorous manner is the old me. The new me lives life on the edge and to make sure I stay on that edge I listen to that Aerosmith song. The song nudges you towards the edge, but doesn’t quite take you to the edge, so mischievous acts need to occur simultaneously. There can be moments where you feel like you’re on the edge, but it’s only because you are living vicariously through Aerosmith’s song.

What I do to take me to the edge is barely legal, living on the edge of barely legal. It could be illegal, but nobody has reported me. What I do is stalk stalkers. Yes, I grow infatuated with a stalker’s ability to follow someone without them knowing, so I follow them. It is a hard hobby to get into because you’ve got to notice what the stalked hasn’t noticed. You usually have to give up all of your plans like having sex, seeing a concert, vacationing in Hawaii, accepting the Pulitzer Prize, and collecting insects. You have to decide to follow the stalker the instant you notice or you won’t get to stalk the stalker.

I’m still learning. I’ve only done it a few times. I’m still not good enough to follow the stalker that long. I’m not good at being idle for long lengths of time. My legs start twitching and shuffling around. I nudge ever closer to the stalker and eventually the stalker sees me. Stalker’s usually act like little babies when they know someone is following them, they stomp off to their cars and drive away. They return to the same spot the next day. A endless cycle of me giving myself away and them stomping off happens. Some of them get confrontational after awhile, so if you’re considering this new hobby please be careful.

When it gets to be something I can’t handle, that is when I summon superheroes with my kick-ass superhero summoning ability. I yell, “Thundercats HO!“ and they appear almost out of nowhere. They capture them, scratch huge gaping wounds into them and then piss on the wounds with their toxic piss. One time they didn’t come and I looked kind of silly in front of the stalker, even though he looked silly first by stalking. You’d think he would have run away scared shitless, but he didn’t. I then summoned my backup superhero Regis Philbin, “Regis Philbin HO!” He jumped out from behind a tree and easily annoyed him to death.

The next time I go to Hollywood I’m going to bring a bunch of friends with me and we’ll take some pictures. I’m really interested in photographing the paparazzi from every angle, so we‘ll encircle one. Every second counts, we’re going to need to take as many pictures as we can. Not all paparazzi are the same so we’ll need to find as many as we can.

Knower of Things

2009-07-11T18:24:00.004-06:00

When I’m not doing stuff I go around and debate with other people. Mostly religion and politics because nobody ever talks about them. I always make sure that I bring my overbearing voice in case people try and go against what I say, my bag of confusing words to throw on the ground below their feet so they can spend most of their time trying to pick them up, and my sunglasses because I can’t have them looking me in the eyes. I bring a camera crew of course so they can tape my genius and cut out the one or two things that I mess up on, if I even mess up.

I’m a people person. I bring all the people that have learned my wonderful ways of thinking along with me. I love people to see my views and opinions and they all always love to hear them because I am a one and only knower of things. If there is any disturbance among my peoples I disperse my freedom thinker police force among the crowd to smother them with belief. It is such a beautiful thing that goes on between me and the public. I’ve become the only person that has gained the ability to do this. Everyone else’s ideas are always missing something when I get control of them. I inject my rightness into their flaws so they can become a better knower of things. And afterward everyone just thanks the hell out of me and I let them wash my feet with their hair.

I’m beyond human, an extra step in evolution. When I get home I take off my human shell and walk free in my true skin. If you saw my real body it would scare you. I have a human shell so I don’t intimidate anyone. I really want a equal playing field when I go out and debate with people. I’m overly nice like that. I give people mind juice that improves their brain function before I continue with our discussion. It’s more like a discussion than a debate where I can show people where the light is. The people I approach are of equal intelligence. It’s not like I grab homeless people, clean them up and put them in front of the camera. I’m too honest of a person to even think of such a deceitful thing, even though I am a supreme knower of things.

I show the world my fantastic discussions on television. I tell my vision on television. For the world I make it easier for people to think, so they don’t have to spend too much time thinking. When they get faced with a decision they can just think about what they saw on my show and they can just think that way. You can have my views I don’t mind. It’s hard to spend time to think in our busy world.
A computer chip is under development by my research and development crew that can be purchased to be put in the brain. You’ll never be without the right ideas or points when entering a debate amongst peers. You’ll know how to side with whatever group of people are winning the argument. If the power of the group switches it tells you the right things to say so you can go on the side that is always right because whoever is winning a argument is right. Life becomes easy. You’ll never have to worry about anything.

When this works out then we can all spread agreement. The world could eventually never disagree and everything will be okay. We all just want to feel better and this makes the world better. Ahhh, peace and harmony. I’m the step in the right direction.

Weird Guy Ranter

2009-07-07T23:58:00.006-06:00

The weird guy that talks to himself should have his own blog. You know the one. The guy that just snapped one day and is now in a permanent state of rant. The one on the bus that makes everyone feel uncomfortable when he talks about smearing pudding on his penis. The one that walks past you on the street that you momentarily thought was talking to you. If he can write he should start his own blog.
Not every Weird Guy Ranter can be a blogger. He does need to know how to do things, how to function as a human. Obviously screws are missing, so are a few bolts, some washers, and quite possibly a brain to screw down within the skull, but he still dressed himself, walked to the bus stop (he probably didn’t get on the right bus), and continues to be alive by eating and breathing. If he can type, turn on a computer, know what letters are, formulate words, sentences and paragraphs he should be a blogger.

He would also need a sense of consciousness; at least enough of one to know to write his rant and not write about how amazing it is that he is typing stuff at that moment. No, wait, I do that. So he can do that then, but if every entry was like that the element of amazement would slowly decrease for the readers. Unless if you are easily entertained. Are you stupid? You are reading my blog. Does your brain rattle a bit in your skull? My brain doesn’t rattle, but it does get a little cramped because it gets a bit dirty. Fortunately, the roof of my skull unlatches for ease of access for a liberal monthly cleaning. I just can’t be around Hannibal Lector or I’m screwed.

If Weird Guy Ranter doesn’t know the proper definitions for words it could cause a problem, but not necessarily. His definition for pudding could be thumbtacks and smearing could be sticking in. Penis is a universal word that spans all derivatives of English I’m sure; from Ebonics to Spanglish to Businessman to Blogger to Brazen Youths to Idiot to Weird Guy Ranter. Whatever he writes it will consist mostly of English words. Interpretation is relative.

If my pen and paper or my laptop screamed out what I wrote I would be a Weird Guy Ranter. Blogger’s/Writer’s are people who talk to themselves out loud, but on paper. I write in public on a bus, in a park, on the front steps of my apartment, sitting in the middle of the road, in public bathrooms on the crapper, and in-between deep glances at women in bookstores.

I can see myself as kind of crazy now. I don’t think I need to be in a psychiatric hospital because Weird Guy Ranter isn’t… he could be on hiatus due to the fact that employee‘s at psychiatric hospitals are human also and they can only take so much. Maybe I should permanently be temporarily not in a psychiatric hospital; in a constant state of unsure, always threatened conspiratorially, but unaware of who’s judging my mental state. Like a sharpshooter eyeing its victim, envisioning their demise, but never reaching the demise. This metaphorical sharpshooter will eventually be covered in his own waste and filth after years of being idle, for the sake of humor of course.

Mr. Illusion and Mr. Life

2009-07-05T12:13:00.014-06:00

I’ve come to the realization that I’m living during the day and at night I‘m dreaming. I had it backwards for some reason. The night me was putting all the effort into my dreams and the day me was slacking off. I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know how I’ve realized this either. I think I’m still formulating this thought actually, so I don‘t think I can say I've realized anything yet. I hope I still don’t have it backwards and right now this is a dream.

I think my awareness of life was jumbled up when I started to understand the power of rebellion in my late teens and early twenties. I would stay up all night playing scrabble, sipping juice and eating cookies with my parents and their friends. My concept of night and day probably got lost in the long hours of fierce competition. I wouldn’t practice proper manners by going out of turn, spelling words like ‘shlebknobi’ and enforcing they be accepted as words with my fists. Those days were a crazy time in my life. I was really trying to figure myself out and I was really confused. It’s hard to look back on that time in my life because a lot of my memories are fuzzy. It was probably caused by an excessive amount of Red #40 color dye in the juice, all that sugar from the cookies and the stress on my brain from thinking.

The me at night gets his laundry done on time and the me during the day usually ends up wearing his clothes from the day before. I don’t know why they can’t work together as one. No, that wouldn’t work, they would just fight with each other. I thought I was a bit rebellious, but maybe I‘m just a go getter. The me at night makes his bed after he gets up which is kind of a trip because I thought I just went to sleep when all of the sudden I realize that I’m making my bed. The me during the day never has any money because he never balances his checkbook and he forgets to take into consideration the time delay when he looks at his bank account online. The me at night is always buying his friends a pitcher of beer and lending money for frivolous spending while the day me spends all his money on mind altering drugs.

If I was a go getter at night then why aren’t I a successful banker or something instead of just a successful chore getter doner? Is the day me holding back the night me? Or is the night me doing the things he always wanted to do during the day? Does the night me have to be similar to the day me? If so that makes it harder to figure this out. Does a higher level of success decide which is reality? Success is subjective, even when I'm two people. I sure have had more fun during the day than at night, isn’t that what dreams are supposed to be, more fun? How many more questions am I going to ask myself? Am I too stupid to ever figure this out?
I’m writing this blog during the day. I don’t write any blogs at night. I don’t write anything at night. I don’t read or go to school at night either. That means I think during the day. Didn’t Descartes say, “I think, I exist”? Didn’t I read that during the day? Well yeah I don’t read anything at night. Didn’t Descartes write that like four hundred years ago? Aren’t we supposed to negate anything that old? Wasn’t the majority of Europe still a monarchy government during that time that raped and plundered other countries?

Why do I have to figure this out? Why do I keep typing? Will this blog ever end? Yeah it will end, I have to go to sleep and the night me doesn’t blog. Right now I can say I like me better during the day. Maybe I’m just two people instead of one. Why do we have to be one person? Why do we have to be so special that we have to be one person? I’m okay with sharing, but if we ever meet in-between in a haze of sleepiness I’m going to mess up the bed he just made.

Brain Lame

2009-06-28T20:01:00.003-06:00

I’ve decided to let all my knowledge go to waste because I now value social acceptance in groups of people who think being smart is stupid. I will never exude arrogance ever again by spouting out knowledge they don’t know. Right now my active knowledge is perfectly functional, unless if I have already let some of my knowledge go to waste.

I used to know how to braid hair, that one girl in fifth grade taught me during a three day span of really liking each other. I used to know how to lose weight until I got enormously fat, now it is hopeless and there is no way of ever gaining this knowledge again. This one time I learned how to be The President of the United States, but I ran out of money and soon lost interest. At one point in my life I used to know how to speak two languages, now I can’t speak any, I only know how to write English. When I was a teenager I knew everything about The Simpson’s TV show, but then I metaphorically moved to Shelbyville.

If I sit around all day and watch TV then my knowledge will gradually withdraw from my massive brain bank. Well… I will learn how to change the channel faster and my knowledge of The Simpson’s would return. What can I do that can make me a complete idiot instead of a partial idiot? I’d have to get rid of anything that gives me knowledge. I already got rid of all my books in a mass book burning celebration with a bunch of Hitler enthusiasts.

Maybe I can plug up my ears with cement, cover my eyes, nose and fill my mouth also, and plug each individual pore in my skin so neither of my senses gain knowledge. When I do this I will show the groups of people I want social acceptance from them and I am making a change in my life. An even bigger change than them and that I will not let anything make me smarter and they now have a chance of being smarter than me so they can easily manipulate me for their own personal gain.
But… this will show I have knowledge and I think for myself, there for not looking cool. I could just talk about how I don’t care. I could tell them I’m actively stupiding myself, dumbing myself and not smarting my brain anymore so I am that way now. I will figure out a way sooner or later. Sooner would be better because later I could be too stupid to figure out how to make myself be stupider.

The Best Way to Get a Woman in the Sack

2009-06-20T16:36:00.002-06:00

The first step to getting a woman in the sack (and possibly all over your sack if she has lips that aren’t sutured together) is to find a woman you would want to be in the sack with. It is better if you find someone you are physically attracted to because if you don’t then your wiener curls up inside your body and if you can’t get it back out it’ll eventually turn into a vagina. The next step would be to find her again after you have decided that she is physically attractive because decisions like that take awhile and they are never ever instantaneous.

If your schedule permits you to, go back and find her multiple times a day. If you’re prepared to give up everything to get this woman proceed with alleviating yourself of all your responsibilities. Quit work/school, if you’re not that productive then prepare to get your ass up off the couch by doing some stretches so you don’t pull a muscle walking out the front door. Get rid of all your friendships, they are meaningless anyway after you get into a sexful in the sack relationship. Sex feels good and stopping having sex sucks so hanging out with your friends is boring and awkward when you are occupied by thinking about sexing it up when you get back home.

Go and see her every moment you can and long to be with her. Don’t let her notice that you are looking at her. Study her behavior and know when her head is about to turn your way so you can look away fast enough to check your phone for no messages and continue your solitaire game.

Dream about her whenever you can‘t find her. Put her in every single scenario you can think of. Save her life from a oncoming train that is about to hit her as she is tied down to the tracks. Imagine yourself typing up this pimp ass detailed ownership contract and get her to sign it before you save her life so you can own her and you’ll never have to get another chick again and she’ll have to do whatever you want because it is in your contract. You can imagine all levels of heroism from just ripping the ropes to breaking the tracks and carrying her off with a Hollywood-like explosion behind you when the train derails into another train. Dream about stuff like this because the odds of this happening is never, unless if you are filming a silent movie.

Once you have spent enough time looking at her and you notice she is going in a house and coming out of the house with different clothes on she is probably living there. Now you know her address and now you can send her sonnets or letters telling her how beautiful she is, but don’t build up her confidence too much. If you only tell her how beautiful she is then you are building up her confidence and if she is on the brink of asking someone else out then she is going to attempt it now. You have to point out some other things about her like how her breasts are already sagging a little bit and her nose looks a little like a pigs or her feet resemble a hobbits and she should probably shave them when she is shaving her legs.
You can continue to do this for years. The longer you do this the more she wants to jump your bones. When you finally do talk to her timing is crucial. Make sure you show your superior intelligence and strength by humiliating any other man that is around her. You can do this by winning a physical altercation or a political debate, or both at the same time, but remember that blows to the head deplete your level of intelligence, so if your stupid just kick his ass. If you can’t kick his ass then continue to try so you look pathetic and she takes pity on you. If you succeed then take off all your clothes on the spot and you’ll have the best sex ever, she’ll be so hot for you.

I just wanted to tell you how to get laid because it’s hard and complicated. I’ve done this three times and now I have three girlfriends. The more the merrier. They all love each other and feel lucky that they get to share me. All the guys are jealous when I walk down the street with three chicks and I’m sick of telling them how I did it so I’m telling the world in this blog, but this isn’t really me typing. It’s one of my hotties who is typing this as I speak it and the other two are naked while I’m naked in bed doing sexual acts.

Con Forming Conformity

2009-06-16T00:41:00.006-06:00

I signed up for a class on conformity, just like everyone else. I here it is supposed to be pretty good. I saw a huge line the other day going around a building so I asked them what was going on. They said they didn’t know, but it has to be good because the line is huge, quite possibly a skanky drunk movie star kicking ass at some chess or free airline peanuts. I cut in line. I found out later that that was a big no-no. I also stood backwards in line and stared down the person behind me until they blinked and moved on to the next person. Half my body was in the line and half of it was outside the line. I almost didn’t get into the class because I did this. They had cameras on us to observe our behavior and told me multiple times on a megaphone to straighten up, but I had my headphones on and I was singing Stoner Hate by Scars on Broadway so the rest of the crowd could enjoy the entertainment because the wait was excruciating.

When I was signing up for the class they showed the video of me so I told them that I wasn’t aware this was a line for a conformity class and from now on all I will do is conform. When I was filling out the form I started at the bottom by signing my name and then worked my way up the page to the top. I wrote some of the words backwards. They asked if I was doing it on purpose and I told them I had no formal training in conformity. They then looked at each other and then said they thought I wasn’t a good candidate for this class because they wanted their class to go smoothly without any interruptions, but before they could finish that sentence I interrupted them.

I proceeded to use my supreme interviewing skills such as airy build-up of my intelligence with big words and custard thick charisma, but the custard turned soupy and I lost ways of connecting one big word to the next in a structured sentence format, so I ended up just saying the big words in order from what I remembered in the dictionary. They were amazed by my memorization skills and said conformity is all about memorization, so remember that. It’s also realizing when you’re supposed to initiate the conformist act in and around anti-conformity in a swift manner so you don’t look stupid by looking like your thinking and a anti-conformist doesn‘t notice and confront your conformity and changes you to a anti-conformist.

Erectable Tent Pitching

2009-05-27T15:03:00.005-06:00

In the summer time I dust of my tent, sleeping bag and camping supplies and stuff them in my car. I head out in to the wild before anyone else takes all the good camping spots. I go really early in the morning right after the sun comes up and the rooster’s crow at 10:30 am. I buy food, worms and biodegradable toilet paper because I don’t want to make a mistake when discerning which poison ivy leaf to wipe with and just use toilet paper. I also want to make sure I eat enough to produce waste so I use the toilet paper and something to torture the worms with (do worms know the difference between shit and mud? They don’t have a nose).

It takes many years to find the perfect campsite without idiot kids laughing jovially making your ears bleed and stupid annoying elderly people smelling up the place with their decomposing flesh. Sometimes you have to go at certain times of the day like before 12 pm to avoid kids camping next to you because there still at home rotting there brains out watching cartoons. If you want to avoid old people go after 6 pm because they are already in bed by then, but there is still a chance there will be young people if they haven’t tired themselves out whining to their parents all day.

When you find the perfect campsite make sure you are far away from the all the rich yuppies because you don’t want them coming over to your tent and blocking the front of your tent forcing you to listen to all their silly bragging about shit they just bought or what new country they just conquered and their pain and struggles of keeping the savages from decolonizing.

When you pitch your tent push all of the weak pussies out of the way and find the softest piece of cement that is the closest to the ticket stand. You want to be one of the first people in line, but comfort is also important. Surety that you know you’ll get to see the movie at the first showing is comforting, but finding good seats is equally as important, so you might want to bring inconspicuous weapons. I made the mistake of bringing my chain with a spiked metal ball the first year because I wanted to be certain that I would knock the person out. People started to notice and I got kicked out of the movie, it sucked getting kicked out of the movie. I now bring blow darts laced with an array of fast acting poisons and tranquilizer solutions.

Day's Day

2009-05-21T15:33:00.002-06:00

At the end of Mother’s Day I sat next to my phone thinking about what I could tell my mom after the scheduled day of appreciation was over that would really chap her hide. On Earth Day when the day was about to end I would drain the oil out of my car and sit right next to a storm drain. 24 hours of being nice is hard, I asked her the night before if I could spread it out during the whole year and be appreciative for almost four minutes everyday, but she told me that I couldn’t and that a whole day is what you’re supposed to do. She said I would be dubbed as disrespectful by every mother on the planet and I would only get glaring looks from them the rest of your life if I didn’t show my appreciation for her for a whole day and there wasn’t any way out of it. I asked her when I could show my appreciation for my best friend and she said I never could because there wasn’t a best friends day and if there isn’t a specified time for appreciation then you look silly like a douche bag.

I then asked her if I could do it another day because I was going to go around and help old ladies cross roads and I was going to give away some of my organs that I don’t need so people could live longer and then I was going to adopt a highway. She then started crying and told me about the day she gave birth to me and I asked her why she was doing this and she said this is what her mother taught her to do when she was a kid whenever she came across that question.

I then showed her all the times I respected her, all the times she was hard on me, and all the times she wasn’t a good mom in a It’s a Wonderful Life type of way, but not when the respectful acts were on Mother’s Day. A black & white Jimmy Stewart kept slipping in and out of our temporary alternate reality like he couldn’t quite stay in his because he even had a hard time being appreciative of his alternate reality with that goofy angel. I finally told him to get out and don’t come back and don’t worry you’re going to go back to your original fictional movie life in about 30 minutes and he peaked in one last time right as we were leaving.

When we got back to reality I said so now do you think we are even and she said no and I was just showing one side of everything and I said you’re only thinking about all the good shit you’ve done for me and there should be a day where I completely disrespect you the whole day for all the times you were human and you didn’t always do the right thing. She then told me to watch my language and I told her I always do and I said shit on purpose as a sign of disrespect. She then gave me a stern look and I said I’m not going to make my kids do Father’s Day, it seems like a silly thing to schedule out a day of gratitude instead of showing it to that person when you feel it.

Then she cried.

I gave in and said okay I’ll make you something for Mother’s Day and she said I wasn’t five years old anymore and if I respected her at all I would buy her something from a store. I then told her that I’d walk around and pick her some flowers and she said no I needed to buy her flowers. I then asked her what if there was an apocalypse and there weren’t any stores anymore and she said that I’d disrespect her the rest of her life so I better not let a apocalypse happen. I then said wow this is so unlike you is this still what your mother taught you to tell me and she said yes and she couldn’t control what she said about it so just give in and do it it’s easier that way.

Eggs Between My Leggs

2009-05-14T05:24:00.002-06:00

Once I finish drinking all of my eggs, taking a bottle of calcium and eating the chicken bones left over from my KFC last night I’m going to pump out some whole eggs (brown probably, organic, wait scratch that my deodorant has a bunch of chemicals in it and so did those Oreos I ate last night) and incubate me a few chicks in the large nest of blankets I built up on my bed. I’ve fattened up a bit so my extremely soft fat ass wont break the eggs compared to my soft fat ass that broke the eggs last week. I should be a proud father of eight if everything works out alright and if I raise them correctly (cage free of course) they should turn out to become silly mascots for a diner or a AAA baseball team or a CEO or something. If worse comes to worse they can always become good eats if they don’t chicken out.

You’re probably thinking, and what would he gain from this? Bragging rights. Just the sheer fact that I’ve done this will get me a whole hell of a lot of attention. I’m still waiting for that watermelon to grow in my stomach and when it does channel nine news will be begging for an exclusive. My brother is an amazing person with unmatchable intelligence and when he tells me it’ll grow if you do it properly I believe him. I swallowed fertilizer for nutrients, insecticide in case there is a tape worm inside and I think that is where I went wrong last time, and a shitload more seeds incase they fall through the fertilizer.

I’ll have to mature faster than I planned. I originally planned on becoming an adult when I was 53. When it was too late for my human kids (when and if I have them in my thirties; raising chickens might suffice for making me feel like I‘ve achieved something in my life) to ever have a real father figure. Now I have to grow up in like four or five years depending on how much my chickens peck at me whining for attention. I can also stay celibate because all I want to do is abstain from having dirty unlawful sex until I never get married. I’d prefer not to get married and I don’t like doing unethical things god and Jesus wouldn’t want me to do. In the end I‘d probably get married, but I‘d sit in protest and my wife to be and her platoon of bridesmaids would carry me to the alter at gunpoint.
I like birthing chickens, but I don’t want to have sex with chickens if I can’t marry them, so artificially creating chicks through this delicate process is necessary. State, national, and planetary law prevents me from marrying animals. If a tortoise forced me to marry her she would have to suffer after she has outlived me, unless if it turns out I’m a immortal.

Lamaze Class for the Ass

2009-04-29T02:14:00.001-06:00

On the way to my lamaze class (it helps give me confidence to tackle those large bowel shits so they go a little bit smoother) I found an ink cartridge sitting on a branch that was attached to a tree with a root system tunneling deep down into the ground. I hesitated on picking up the ink cartridge because what if it threw the tree off balance and it fell over; tunneling root systems balance on a very tricky equilibrium. I left my measuring tape, tree book identifier, and my TI-85 calculator in my other pair of pants (I better take those out of my pockets or I’m going to find it in large soggy paper chunks when I open the washing machine, especially the TI-85) or I would have figured out mathematically if I could take the printer ink cartridge off without the tree falling over.

If I had my tree book identifier I could check and see if it was a printer ink cartridge tree. I looked around to see if a printer printed out the tree or not. I found a printer on the ground all bashed up as if the Office Space guys got a hold of it. That thing couldn’t have printed out a tree of paper, plus the ink cartridge was black ink not colored ink. I then remembered reading in my tree book identifier that a printer ink cartridge tree seeps out ink like maple syrup and hot plastic on the other side of the tree. I grabbed the expecting father and mother (me… I became so by eating gobs and globs of In Vitro Fertilization) by the coattails and walked me up to the tree and poked around in between the detailed coarse vagina-like bark trails. I didn’t find any defensive octopus juice deterrent or scorching hot magma plastic. For sure it wasn’t a printer ink cartridge tree.

I then heard a distinct sound that I couldn’t quite place and then it hit me. Well, the TV hit me on the head; I was lucky it was a small kitchen TV. The sound was a falling sound, like an acme anvil in Bugs Bunny. Its been too long since I’ve seen Bugs Bunny and if I had watched it I would have know before it was too late. I shouldn’t have to watch it for awhile this event should remind me. I looked up and saw an angry woman throwing clothes, books, and a relationship out of the window (yes she was pushing her boyfriend out the window). I would have tried to catch him, but I didn’t want to look gay holding him in my arms. I made this decision a split second before he would have landed in my arms and the expression on his face when he knew I was worried about looking gay is etched in my mind; sheer fear mixed with understanding while bracing himself for impact.

I grabbed the printer ink cartridge and went to my lamaze class, but unfortunately later on I found out that it was the wrong number ink cartridge for my printer and my printer opened itself and spit it out like our relationship was over. So I threw the printer out my window.

For Richer or For Poorer

2009-04-24T16:16:00.001-06:00

I walked over to the collective area of very tall buildings in the downtown area earlier in this categorized and numbered 24 hour block of time we all are living in after I ate a bowl of crunchy sugar and food coloring bites. I went around and spotted a small group of young men in expensive suits and I’d sit near them and listen in on their conversations. They all talked about money and how much they had and how much they made and how they were going to make more. Then I used my clever extendable Inspector Gadget-like arm hand thing and checked their wallets to see if they were lying. If they were lying I’d keep the money. If they were truthful I’d put it back in their pocket; I probably should have just kept it; it was a pain in the ass and if I wasn’t careful a poke in their ass. I was careful not to form the hand of the extendable arm to just one pointed finger in a phallic manner. I went around and did this a couple of times until I thought I had enough money.

I then walked up to homeless people and told them I’d give them money if they did some things for me. No, not those types of things! You have a dirty mind! I told them I’d give them some money if they took my favorite pair of clothes to the cleaners, cleaned my car (some of them got into it and put on the bikinis they had stashed in their carts), had them fill up the air in my tires to the exact pounds per square inch that Barack Obama told us to fill it to, swept the street corner & threw away the trash that was littered on the ground, changed some money for quarters and filled the parking meters up properly, and shave my back & buttocks, but only if they were mostly sober.

Some of them told me to go shove that extendable Inspector Gadget-like arm hand thing up my ass. I then would raise the price of money I’d pay them and that got most of them thinking and they ‘d change their minds. A few of the more clever ones would ask for more money, but I would just get them to wax my car and get a tire autographed by a Barack Obama autographing impersonator. Some of them asked me if I could just give them the money and then passed out. The last homeless person I went up to was an undercover agent for the Division of Labor and I had to make a run for it. I was lucky he was fatter than me, my car was closer and I removed my license plates earlier that day. Actually, the guy who found out I stole his license plates confronted me earlier in this categorized and numbered 24 hour block of time when I was walking to my car and stole them back.

After I drove around for a few hours and had some time to think about the rest of the money I still had I went and got new brakes for my car, bought a few rounds at the nearest bar, bought a real license plate, bought dinner, bought some video games and movies and CD‘s that I‘ve wanted for the past couple of months, bought a few items that were on clearance that I didn’t really want but liked because they were 40% off, bought three boxes of silly straws instead of regular straws and no straws because straws are a waste of space and money, bought one of those three gallon drums of ice cream, and paid someone to write this blog.

The Filing of Landfilling

2009-04-19T16:16:00.001-06:00

I can’t believe the world is barreling along full throttle as if there will be another day to live tomorrow without your own personal landfill. I ordered mine through Amazon.com, well it was through one of those shady companies under the used & new section that are three dollars cheaper but charge you an addition eight bucks for shipping and $6.50 for a guarantee that they don’t know when they’ll ship it, so it could be fifteen minutes or when your first born child doesn’t die by creeping deaths impending doom life sucking fog because you remembered to smear lambs blood on the outside of the front door-frame of your house/squat/pyramid/tent/port-o-potty.

I had a friend who owned ten acres of land. He dug up all his land and poured it in a landfill filling up the landfill with land. He then turned his land into a landfill. He wants to get ten acres of the Swiss Alps put on his landfill so he can fill his landfill to its full capacity and not waste. If that doesn’t work he’ll get a volcano and in a few hundred or thousand years it will properly turn into land. If he can’t get one he will redirect one to his land with industrial strength lava proof piping made out of the stolen bits of the Swiss Alps.

I wonder who does the filing for the general census of landfills? Has the Bureau for Ethical Filing of the General Census of Everything created a landfill full of files on landfills with a file on the landfill full of files on landfills? I know landfills are very well organized and it is nothing like my apartment which contains a whole years worth of trash in a pile in the middle of my room. The files that contain the detailed list of all the trash in my apartment and my landfills in other areas and landfills in other landfills are of course put away in a highly organized filing cabinet that is filed away in very large filing cabinet of filing cabinets. If the Bureau for Ethical Filing of the General Census of Everything loses my files I can make them copies and note in my files that I made copies for them in case they need to know if they ever received copies from me.

Blog Deprived

2009-04-14T05:16:00.001-06:00

By the time I get to write this blog I just want to relax and watch TV or read War & Peace or organize my dishes by brand name or exercise or take a attention deprived metro male on a shopping spree or go clean my coins and iron my dollar bills. A blog is like owning a pet or having a girlfriend. Most of the time it’s awesome and it gives you pleasure, but you have to give it attention or it poops on your carpet and develops a yeast infection. It’s really weird coming home to your girlfriend pulling up her pants in the middle of your apartment right above a steaming pile. They both have a guilty face and when you interrogate them they don’t say shit about the shit. Then all of your friends come over and you try and prevent them from coming in, but they push their way through and burst out laughing when they see and smell what happened. Some of them don’t even see it and just go straight to your couch and play video games. Some of them help you clean it up and suggest ways of getting the stain out while others tell you how to handle your pet and girlfriend.

After everyone leaves your girlfriend nags you about having your friends over when you were supposed to have a nice quite romantic dinner. Other things in your relationship like shit on the carpet side tracked you and the long belly aching laughs and deep discussions with your friends helped you unwind and gave you strength to proceed with your relationship and taking care of your girlfriend, I mean pet. You talk yourself into a hole while she completely turns herself off. You ignore her at first knowing that there are other ways of seeking pleasure, but you know it isn’t as fulfilling. She looks right at you as you watch old reruns of Baywatch; her glare is unwavering. You think to yourself, ‘So what if I messed up, she shit on my carpet. I know she did. There is no way my fish can produce that large of a bowel movement. She couldn’t of had enough bowl movement circling within the bowl with a bowel movement that large inside her and jump out onto the carpet.’
Your girlfriend turns herself on again and radiates from across the room increasing your level of exposure to radiation. You both apologize for the way you acted and except each others apology even though you know she sunk to a new low to get your attention. You contemplate getting a new girlfriend, but you think about all the work you put into this relationship and how both of you have improved each other. Then you think about how disgustingly beautiful and cliché your relationship has become. So you give her a couple of tattoos, dye her hair black and dress her in dingy clothes. Then you find a lid for your fish bowl.

Extreme Nature TV

2009-04-09T00:51:00.005-06:00

I just signed a multi-channel TV contract with some major cable networks to do a extreme nature survivor show. I dazzled them at the business meeting by showing them a video of my extreme nature excursions that I do on the weekends. I got sponsored by a kick ass energy drink that slips in amphetamines. Don’t tell them I told you or they said they’d take away my free years supply (fix/stash). It gives people that extra boost that no other energy drink does. I also got sponsored my an organic granola bar company that slips in happiness and distracting floating chunks of life travel. Just don’t eat and drink these two items at once, it’s very confusing.

In the video I showed the asshole corporate business fucks that I drank the energy drink when I did the extreme stuff like jumping out of an airplane with a parachute and a snowboard. They liked that of course because only a name brand can give me what I need to succeed at such death defying stunts. When it got to the nature part and I was walking through nature I ate the granola bar. I would soon spout out amazing muses, lengthy observations, sonnets and songs to the camera.

On the last adventure I showed them I took a trip to Africa. The thing is is that I tell the pilot to just fly somewhere while I’m blindfolded and I jump out of the plane in my parachute and snowboard (only one ski when I feel really adventurous) and I try and figure out where I am before I hit the ground. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Africa but there are mountains as far as the eye can see. I popped open a can of kick ass energy drink while I was free falling from 100,000 feet (yes outer space!) My snowboard has a layer of heat plates so I don’t burn up in the atmosphere in my descent. When I’m finished with my energy drink I throw it outside my awesome flame trail so I don’t create useless waste and it burns up in my wake (it is a nature show and I want to set an example).

When I get down to like 20,000 ft I do a bunch of kick ass flips and twists until I pop my chute ridiculously close to the ground because I don’t want to look like a pussy. I detach my chute a mere fifteen feet from the ground, fall coolly with my knees slightly bent and gracefully slide into a snowboard slide down the mountainside of the great African mountains.

I provided the businessmen with drool bibs to prevent them from messing up their suits and they thanked me afterward. They thought it would be a great promotional thing to do for when they sold the DVD’s to add a bib in the cellophane and put a colorful star on the package that says, ‘It’s so extreme you’ll need a bib! You little pansy baby bitches!’

When the mountain became less and less steeper the snow was more and more less plentiful until my snowboard eventually slid to a stop in the heavy coarse sand of the Sahara Desert. My board was ruined so I left it along with my granola bar wrapper (I forgot to wear pants with pockets), but with the camera off because I was littering. I eventually reached a small village with a bunch of locals that were very overly nice offering me some more kick ass energy drink and organic granola bar.

They showed me around town while speaking gibberish and smelling very disgustingly like they haven’t showered at all that day. One of them asked me a question, I only knew because of the tonal quality of his voice, as he pointed at a large sign. It was like a large highway sign. I think the villager was asking me if I knew what it was. The sign said, ‘Maximum capacity 5 Billion’ in red lettering. It took me a while to figure it out, but I did. That village was obviously the capital of the world and the United Nations Fire Marshal has obviously been here. I think the villagers didn’t know that they were the capital of Earth and the rest of Earth didn’t know they were exceeding the maximum capacity.

On my carriage ride to the nearest large town I wondered who the UN Fire Marshal was fining. You'd think I would have heard someone complaining on the news or C-SPAN or C-SPAN 4: Rural Politics, but then I realized that it is the UN and it fully explains their lack of involvement. I explained it delicately and in great depth to the viewer while I ate a granola bar.

I felt greener than any environmentalist with a million dollar wad of cash in my hand, after I signed the contract, but now I feel like raked leaves all brown and crumpled now that I’m just a TV star. I really need to be a movie star.

Lightning Move

2009-03-28T23:29:00.002-06:00

I moved. From a house with a roommate to a studio apartment by myself. My brother along with a friend of his from some branch of the military helped me move most of my things in under an hour, blitzkrieg style. I suggested we take our time and build trenches, but they wanted to invade like lightning. We carried my mattress on the end of our bayonets in formation as we infiltrated the stairwell up three flights of stairs with my TV, monitor and computer tower strapped to our backs. With each step the pots and pans that were tied by rope on the ventilation grills clanged each other. We kept in close contact the whole time and used our nicknames, Charlie, Tex, Private Dick, Private Private’s, and Private Private’s Private’s (some of us had two or three nicknames).

After we got all my stuff in my room, my brother and his friend spontaneously ripped off their clothes and had gay army sex all over my straight bed, so I had to kick them out of the platoon, but I told them that the boy scouts were looking for den masters. When they were done (yes they continued to have gay army sex while I fired and referred them) I cooked up some flavorless grub in my new mess hall and drowned it in hot sauce before we practically swallowed it whole. After they left I laid on my bed (but only after changing the sheets) smoking and sweating profusely in my dimly lit apartment as I watched my sealing fan go round and round as it made light helicopter sounds and through the thin walls I heard ‘The End’ by The Doors playing on someone’s stereo.

And then I had to go stand guard out front of my apartment for 14 hours until I was relieved by a large troop of bisexual cockroaches.

Jason Abrasion

2009-03-03T03:23:00.003-07:00

I woke up this morning to Jason Voorhees star of the new Friday the 13th movie pulling me into my bed like it was Crystal Lake and someone just stabbed and hacked the shit out of him and dumped his body in there. I was ready though. I saw the movie a few weeks ago and ever since then I had made a few precautions preventing me from becoming another Jason statistic. I hadn’t had any premarital sex which was hard, but not any harder than my normal sexless life.

I abstained from smoking any marijuana which made me smarter and words like abstained can pop in my head when I’m writing these overly complex and riveting blog entries. I knew just those two precautions wouldn’t cut it so I put a machete, a chainsaw, a thick long chain, a glass of water, a portable wood chipper, four feet of rebar, a beaker of flesh eating and hockey mask eating acid, and a picture of his mom all on my night stand. I just couldn’t drink the acid by accident because then I would die before I could even take him on.

I knew sooner or later he was going to get me because there are only so many people who go to an abandoned camp and he was going to take up the ways of other killers like Freddy Krueger and attack people in different ways. I just think he doesn’t have the entering someone’s dream down. He only knows how to rip open your mattress when you aren’t home and hide inside it and get you when you least expect.

I thought I smelled a peculiar odor of duck shit and crusty blood in my room, but couldn’t quite place it, so I fell asleep without drinking the acid on accident. At first I thought it was ten hot breastful women that were pulling on me, but unfortunately it was only my wonderful dream being ripped from my mind and Jason was pulling me into my bed. I don’t know if Jason actually thought this out. His execution was flawless, but where did he think he was going to take me? Down into the box spring? ‘Ouch these springs are hurting me‘, but I wasn’t thinking about that either and I was scrambling to grab anything off of my night stand. I knocked the machete on to the floor, but with one great stretch I was able to grab the rebar and I stabbed him in his shoulder. That freed me some more and I grabbed the glass of water and realized it wasn’t the acid and took a few sips because I was parched. I then grabbed the acid and Jason stopped and said, “Hey don’t hit me with that acid, I’m a movie star and I’ve got to keep a dashingly handsome face.”
“Okay, here is a picture of your mom, go somewhere and be creepily enthralled in it like you are with anything else that reminds you of your mother. Oh, and go fuck yourself you suck!”
“Hey, that isn’t necessary.”
“You seriously need to put yourself in other peoples shoes and I don’t mean by cutting off their feet.”
Then we had a very heart to heart conversation with plenty of lemonade and sugar cookies.

Bester Tester

2009-02-12T15:45:00.002-07:00

I’d rather sit in the library and play solitaire and listen to music than study for my test on Saturday. The test is on Saturday morning cartoons given by the imperial Gavin Gladstone of the third grade kick ass club. His crew won’t jump me anymore if I pass the test. I also have to study for a history test. I went in the future and found out it wasn’t that important that I pass the test because the kick ass club is still going to kick my ass even if I pass both tests. I will then cease to exist… as a human. I split my soul seven times and I will live on a snake for a year, and then on the back of Pat Sajak’s head. Slowly I will gain strength by drinking third grader blood, which is dark and evil, given to me by a very big fourth grader that has fangs on his legs. He collects the blood very casually by pricking the third grade kick ass club throughout the day. It collects in a mini bladder bag.

Once I am powerful enough to live in a body I will get Harry Potter to perform a magic trick on the body and make it my body with modifications (bodyfications) that allows me to turn into a very large green muscled brut that rips apart third grade kick ass club kids. And whenever I take a test in a scholastic/workplace type place I can cause havoc by displacing all writing utensils (including computers, typewriters, and stones with carving things) in a ten mile radius subconsciously and when I get around my friends (or women I would like to boast in front of) I become consciously aware that I did that so we can all laugh about it.
I will also get a power that allows me to chew gum indefinitely without getting a headache or jaw twinge and my teeth add flavor, gum base and all the ingredients that prevents it from turning all gross and fall apartie.
All these things will help me advance beyond the average feeble human and third grader. I will be on the same level as wizards and immortals.

Lickidy Split

2009-02-10T10:33:00.001-07:00

I’ve never seen giraffes walk a tight rope lined with butter with my left eye, but I’ve seen it with my right eye. My doctor issued me an eye patch because he thought I needed a healthy dose of bizarre. My left eye felt like it was sold short of life experiences.

This was a bad call on my doctors part. He was acting too much like my psychiatrist. He doesn’t know how my mind works, but does know how my bowels move. What do my bowels need Dr. Doctor? Just tell me what I need in my comments section (if you aren’t my doctor just pretend you are a psychiatrist who secretly wants to be a doctor). I can‘t afford to see you until I find some dope on the street I can sell my slightly used eye patch to.

I have found some people with eye patches I can sell dope to though, but wearing the eye patch temporarily threw off my vision and I saw double, so when I thought people were paying me twenty dollars they were only paying me ten. And that second hand that I thought I grew when I wasn’t paying attention that splits off from my forearm doesn’t exist.

It’s a shame because I was going to suck on two tootsie roll pops at once, each on opposite sides of my mouth. I wanted to hear how loud two crunches were after I licked them three times. One, two, three… Crunch! And with two tootsie roll pops it would have been CRUNCH! Then I’d have to go visit the dentist. A real one. Not some psychiatrist or a doctor posing as one and not some commenter posting something on my blog. Unless if you are a licensed dentist. One can be a licensed dentist and a licensed commenter posting on a blog.

Job for Hire

2009-01-30T19:00:00.001-07:00

I don’t understand why people won’t hire me. I told them I’d only steel and break things in their workplace when I have to. I also told them that if they let me smoke a bowl and take a shot every once in a while I wouldn’t have any temper tantrums. I only go to the bathroom in public when I need attention or if I think flowers and shrubbery need some nutrients.

I told them I have a Beaver Cleaver rubber mask that I could wear and I created a robot shell I could put on my body and I’ve been practicing to be a robot my whole life. I told them if they gave me a couple of days I could surgically install a computer in my head and I’d make a front panel for the robot shell so they can program me for absolutely no steeling and breaking stuff mode.

They said being a computer wasn’t good enough and they’d have to shackle me to a post every shift and stick butt plugs in my butt and my other thing that gets rid of waste, but they are not sure if I’d be the right person for them because I was arrested for not having a job once.

I have a plan for getting a job though. I was thinking I’d tape the super bowl and I’d give that to them when I hand in my application. Or I could rob a bank and slip a few grand under the table. Or marry their ugly daughter that can’t get a date. Or start a gang and take down their competition. Or run for president. Or pretend I’m a dog and drop myself off at the humane society, I already know how to go to the bathroom in public.

Dirty Bottle

2009-01-23T21:16:00.000-07:00

I’m glad gas prices are down so I don’t have to siphon gas anymore. It’s disgusting. The sudden squirting in the mouth and the taste, not the stealing. I don’t mind stealing, but I don’t condone the sealing of my things. That is very sinful. I don’t like things squirting in my mouth. Especially ketchup, it’s disgusting. If the bottle isn’t cleaned properly it’s even more disgusting. The corners of the lid can build up gunk if the dishwasher is lazy, and the bottle can just be sprayed out instead of lathered properly with soap. I’ve seen some dishwashers straddle the ketchup bottle while they clean it improperly dirtying it to an even more disgusting level. It’s not even efficient to do it that way and when something is cleaned improperly it is usually because they want to clean it faster. When dishwashers do it that way they have something against the owner or a general hatred towards ketchup eaters.
I’ve never seen a dishwasher improperly wash other condiment bottles like this. Unless if they knew I was there watching them, which is impossible because my level of stealth is undetectable especially when I watch them on a security camera.
I only squirt shampoo in my mouth if I run out of soap and I only wash my mouth out when I say dirty fucking words. When my fingers type dirty fucking words I wash my fucking fingers. Neither one of them seem to work, it’s just a habit my mother got me into, but it never seemed to work no matter how many times she did it. I could never understand why religious people dubbed them as dirty bitch-ass words and my mother could never explain why they are dirty fucking words except by saying, “because they fucking are.” So it became a habit like changing my underwear when I can smell them with my pants on. It’s just a stupid habit our parents got us into.

I Don't Quite Like Bread and Butter

2009-01-17T01:44:00.000-07:00

I made toast the old fashioned way this morning with my roommate’s welding torch and it nearly burnt it on any level of heat I used. I used jelly beans as a spread and I’d have to say it spreads easier than a stick of butter. Someone should invent a fake butter that spreads real easy and clogs your arteries in a more artificial manner like plastic or wax. It should taste like jelly beans; the ones that taste like bizarre things like buttered popcorn and shoe laces.
A really wimpy looking person should promote it like Elijah Wood or Michael J. Fox. The band Flight of the Conchords should sing the jingle for it at the end that can draw out the commercial an extra twenty seconds and cause the TV show that is running to cut back on some of its mediocre melodrama. It can be packaged in a layer of gel and shaped like a ball so it can easily roll into the back of your fridge or onto the floor; it really matters on how level your rack is. As soon as it gets famous and catches on refrigerators will make a shelf that holds the gel ball much better. Or you could just throw it in your veggie and fruit bin.
Toast is boring. Someone should rock the bread world and give it some pizzazz. I say put coloring in it just like everything else to make it more artificial. If this took off and the world started to do it then when you order a sub then they will have to ask you what color bread you would like. Just to give them a hard time I’d ask the person at the counter what colors they have. They could introduce the patriotic bread red, white and blue or your favorite sports team colors. I’d have to go with a zombie grayish-green or a Twinkie yellow or a dark bloody red or maybe a vagina pink because in-between the six seconds that I’m not thinking of sex I’d like to think of vaginas. I definitely would not combine the bloody red and the vagina pink.

Hippies Should Watch the A-Team

2008-12-31T18:18:00.007-07:00

I was watching The A-Team and thought that more people should be engrossed in its goodness. Anyone who grew up in the eighties loves it and is watching it right now. They don't switch to other TV show with any other types of storylines, because this one is above them all. The only type of people who don’t watch The A-Team are stinky coodie girlie girls and hippies. Not all hippies. Some hippies aren’t aware of what they are watching because they aren’t aware of anything. Some hippies are aware and they don’t really care what they watch because it makes them feel good to watch something from their childhood. The rest of the hippies are fully aware of the violence. I call them intellectual hippies. They want to set an example to others that this is not a good thing to be subjected to because a person may mimic the behavior of it's heroes/antiheroes.
I think those hippies should reconsider.
The A-Team recycles materials and builds machines and vehicles with them to fight against corrupt governments and greedy businessmen. After every show Mr. T melts down his gold chains, makes teeth out of them and gives them to people who are missing a tooth. He also washes his neck with herbal soaps that were smeared on a woman’s breasts that have never been constricted by silly bras. Every show Hannibal smokes a cigar that is actually full of marijuana and the part he slobbers on is dipped in acid. This gives Hannibal the abilities to concoct those outlandish plans to get them out of any debacle. Face reads a lot of books after the show that are made out of recycled paper that were made out of recycled trees that were made out of recycled acorns that fell from another tree that was planted by an intellectual hippie after having an orgy in the woods. Murdock takes full advantage, on and off the screen, of the psychiatric wards paid for by the government fought for by intellectual hippies.
So intellectual hippies should sit down on the floor cross-legged, turn on the TV, pluck The A-Team video from the closest flower pot and put it in the VCR. It's perfectly normal if one feels like getting up spontaneously and dancing naked halfway through the show or during it's theme song. Friends and family will understand what caused you to do this, but some won't understand why you thought this was the best way to express that overwhelming joy and they might try to dress you (that can become awkward). To express my joy I usually jump of my couch, smash things, hang from chandeliers and ceiling fans and rock out on my air guitar. When I realize I’ve missed precious storyline I stand on all fours like a cat ready to pounce a foot away from my TV screen. I sometimes lapse into a spontaneous chaotic thunder dance, but only if the theme song kicks back on in my head which can also happen when I’m doing anything else like praying and helping old ladies across the road.

Kick Ass Christmas

2008-12-19T23:24:00.001-07:00

RUUUUUUUUUUUN! SHOVE! SLAP! TRIP! KICK! PUNCH! BODYSLAM! ITS CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY! Don’t forget to bring your riot gear, switch blade, and sawed off shotgun it’s time for last minute Christmas shopping and I’m prepared to kick your ass if you’re getting what I’m getting. Three-hundred-sixty some days a year I prepare for battle with pankration style fighting in Zimbabwe, Sri Lanka, Argentina and Silver Spring, Maryland (that’s an ancient Greek fighting style for all you novice fighting knowers and yes Silver Spring is near Washington D.C.). This is the only time of year that I really get challenged (with my superior fighting skills of course) because in large stores people are everywhere and it’s kinda like beating up a shitload of approaching ninja’s that jump out of bushes or off the top of the racks right when you grab the last swiffer mop. I would come prepared folks because the more our society evolves like it is the better the fighting skills people will develop in the years to come. Last Christmas I came across a band of sumo wrestlers in the hardware section buying all the paint that I needed to get for my cousin in Saskatchewan (he was renovating his old house and he promised to send me a caribou’s weight in Tim Horton’s donuts if I got him some paint for Christmas). I know what you’re thinking, he’s nuts to take on all those sumo wrestlers. Luckily I didn’t have to because they actually saw me first and when they started to run after me they got themselves lodged into the isle so I grabbed a bunch of paint and poured it on them so when it dried they were permanently stuck there. But when I was purchasing all of my items (throwing them out of the truck bay dock doors) the herd of paint covered sumo wrestlers found me (they must have torn down the whole isle), but they were to slow to catch me because I have the legs of a gazelle (with a load of paint cans they’re more like legs of a deer).
This year I actually heard that some stores aren’t going to open right when they’re supposed to open. They’re just going to pretend to move around and look like they’re getting the store ready for their precious customers. Minute by minute they’re going to analyze the ferocity of the crowd with heat sensing camera’s and when they think the crowd is riled up enough or right when they start to brake down the doors they’re going to unlock the doors. They’re doing it because it’s payback for all the over-the-top customer service we’ve so arrogantly requested in the past.

Down Drops the Moon

2008-12-16T16:19:00.000-07:00

Down drops the moon
Apt to a loon
Crashed in a crater
Hello operator
Emergency assistance please
It knocked down the trees
Send all you got
To this very spot
Please, please bring the police
but not your aunt and niece
Here comes the authorities
Hope there are more a’dese
Lights flash sirens scream
All real, not a dream

Chaos panic
We’ve lost the tide
Chaos panic
The surfers died
Alarm fear
Grabbed beers
Alarm fear
Jumped off piers
Tragic horror
Lined up in rows
Tragic horror
Leaped with their toes

Boiling My Boots

2008-12-15T13:00:00.000-07:00

I sold everything in my procession and am now living with the bare minimal. I have one pair of clothes, six q-tips, a fresh pair of undies to have the luxury of feeling fresh every once and a while, three porno mags, ten cans of beans, a circle of rocks with a pit to put wood in so I can build a fire in my room, a bucket to relieve myself in and bucket and a sponge to wash myself, and most importantly my laptop.
I’m renting out the extra room to Clyde Williams the coolest kid in kindergarten for a regular supply of paste (sustenance). I’m renting out the basement to a family of ten, my couch to a hot hot chick that I will soon find out her name if I massage her feet five more times, but only when she wants it. I’m also renting out twenty pieces of floor to seventeen people and three monkeys.
I walk or use Clyde Williams’ horse and buggy when he is around to get to where I need to go. I sold my bed and am sleeping on top of the people I rented the floor out to ( the fatter they are the more comfortable they are). I might have to start chopping up other peoples houses for fire wood, but I have to acquire an axe somehow. I heard somebody was offering a job the other day and I camped out the night before, but the line was so long I couldn’t even get an application for it.
I’m a writer now more than I have ever been. I sold fifteen words and four letters. Vowels go for higher because they are more rare and so do words in a different language. People pay me in beans or cheese puffs and monkeys pay me in banana’s of course (don’t rip them off because they like flinging feces and that can contaminate the banana’s).
To post this blog I must go to the library and use their free internet.

Dear Santa Claus,

2008-12-06T22:09:00.000-07:00

I know I haven’t been that good of a boy this year, but it’s not my fault I got drunk and ate all of the candles at my friend Elijah’s Hanukkah party. I thought they were huge vanilla candy corns. I didn’t shower enough and I didn’t wash behind my ears this year. I know because I can scratch the crustiness behind my lobe while watching it flake off out of the corner of my eye as I type deftly with one hand. I only did my laundry once this year. My floor is a sea of dirty clothes thanks to all the clothes I got from previous Christmas’s (hint hint). You know wearing sweaters in the middle of August isn’t too bad if you don’t move around too much. I know you wouldn’t know that or even experience that, but you can use that the next time you’re in your religious chat rooms to sound more like a real person and not some hermit locked up in his house 364 days a year.
What I always wanted to know is what kind of security system do you have? I’m sure you have problems with rich seven year olds flying up to the north pole and going all mission impossible on your house and steeling presents because they know they weren’t going to get any presents from you this year because they know they stole money by siphoning it from some bank in a foreign country because they have mad computer hacking skills. The thing they don’t understand is that they can buy whatever they want with that money, they don’t need Santa Claus to give them presents. Kids these days, they can hack through to any politician’s computer and leave him a virus that can destroy every last scandal they brainstormed, but they can’t add 1 + 1 (it’s 11).
Look what I really wanted this year is for you to give me presents that one up’s all my neighbors’ presents (I’m getting sick of all these sweaters). If you don’t understand me let me tell you what I mean and if you know what I mean just ignore this past sentence. I think next-door-neighbor is getting a Grass Thwhacker 3000, so that means I want a Grass Thwhacker 3000 3.1 edition with available space to upgrade if Jeff at work asks for a better Smart Whacker I haven’t heard of. My distant cousin (who I talk to once a year; if I talked to him anymore he wouldn’t be distant) was talking about getting a new mail box (I know that sounds weird, but I think he wants it for Christmas) if he does get me an awesomer one that chucks the mail across the lawn in a spherical-like tube thing and crashes through my window (I think they’re called capsules). John wants a new dog so get me a mechanical one that goes up stairs and grabs a beer out of the refrigerator and comes back down and gives it to me. Make sure he does this good because I don’t want him messing up in front of me while I’m gloating in front of my neighbors (now that would be embarrassing wouldn’t it!).
I hope these requests aren’t too hard for you. I’m sure you can do it … or can you? Now you wouldn’t be a real Santa Claus if you didn’t. Real Santa’s are forgiving. They also make up for giving people a New Kid’s on the Block doll instead of the monster truck that I really wanted. You know my brother reminds me of that every Christmas how much of a pansy boy I am for getting one. He thinks I requested that in my letter to you that specifically stated that I wanted a monster truck. Oh, that reminds me you’ll be hearing from my lawyer sooner or later. The emotional damage that has caused me half my life is irreparable. I have to take Prozac now because of you and it isn’t cheap either (I should have gone with a generic brand but I’m American I buy the name brand which is still your fault not mine that I am a superficial American).
Well I hope we have an understanding here Mr. Claus. I hope you can improve your work ethics and Merry Christmas. I’ll wish you a happy New Year when we can work things out, but for now all you’re getting is a Merry Christmas.

Best wishes,

Anonymous

Steal Their Wheelchair

2008-12-01T22:15:00.002-07:00

I’m out on a walk right now typing this blog on my laptop. I hold in my possession the rare gift of doing two things at once successfully (I’m actually chewing gum, too, so three things at once). Well, not in every situation. When I was in school I couldn’t sit in my seat and learn, but I could wait for glue to dry on my hand so I could later peel it off while acting like I wasn‘t doing anything wrong. It’s kind of unpredictable. I can’t listen to a preacher and take communion because I spill grape juice all down the front of my suit, but I can watch a boiling pot and eat my pre-dinner snack (chips, cookie dough, leftover rack of lamb).
I can’t stray too much I must get on with my little adventure. So I’m walking and typing this blog at the same time and I’ve come across a wheelchair right in the middle of the sidewalk. The only way someone would abandon a wheelchair was if they were suddenly cured. I thought maybe that their brakes locked or something so I got in and it moved just fine, but the smell of this persons nasty ass is not fine. To fix that I’ve pulled a bunch of grass out of the ground and created a thick layer on the seat. All I need is some bamboo and wood and I’d have me a Gilligan-esque wheelchair. I think if I was handicapped and I was suddenly cured I wouldn’t abandon the wheelchair. I’d use it on days when I’m desperate for attention and go to public places and reenact the miracle.
A car has just pulled around the corner so I’ve hopped the curb and grabbed on to the bumper Michael J. Fox Back to the Future style. I’m crouching low enough so the driver can barely see me and so he can do a double take like he just did and I can give him a comical hello wave like I’m doing right now. My cleverness ego level is at number eleven as I dodge pot holes, bottles and cans, and a handicapped guy crossing the road in a military crawl. That guy needs a wheelchair. It’s too bad I’m having fun or I’d go back and give it to him.
The guy in the car is trying to shake me off. Jesus christ! Does this guy realize that he can paralyze me? What a jerk. I put my laptop in my bag… and I held fast. The guy got more violent nearly slamming me into a parked car. I had to do something to get him to stop so I thought of an old trick that my cousin used to do. I grabbed this ladies grocery bag as I was flying by, pulled the eggs out and dropped the bag. I jammed a bunch of eggs in his muffler and they immediately flew back out hitting the lady who was picking up her grocery bag. I forgot he used eggs in a muffler for a laugh and not a solution to a problem.
I then tossed the eggs delicately over the car aiming for the windshield eventually gooping it enough to get him to slow down and stop. I ditched the wheelchair and fled by foot down an alley quickly dictating what I did in past tense.

Out of One's Gourd

2008-11-27T03:04:00.000-07:00

Ahhh, Thanksgiving. The day where we give thanks for food and the ability to stuff our selves until we are out of our gourds. I don’t know if it is stuffing one self that causes one to be out of their gourd or if it’s being around all of ones family members. I haven’t done an exact experiment to figure out what it is, but my hypothesis is it has to be one of those two things. I’ve seen family members stuff themselves stupid, so that could cause other family members to quarrel about the most inane things like what kind of skin the football needs or if you have to cook the turkey or not. Why can’t you just eat the turkey right after you de-feather it? And why can’t they play football with a turkey skin and not pigskin? I’m not sure exactly and I’d have to run an experiment to make it official.
Right now it is just a perceptive thing that only the most perceptive people can notice. It’s not really put out in the open because people don’t want Thanksgiving to go any less smoothly even though my uncle announced that he wants to become my aunt and my aunt that has always been my aunt rambled on about all of her promiscuity over the last fifty years in fine disgusting detail (somebody should wrap her mouth in turkey skin). My grandma rambles on about the consistency of grandpa’s poop and my cousin’s talk about how awesome Justin Timberlake is (that’s the worst of them all). Thank god we have the ability to stuff ourselves until were out of our gourds because this entry would be a whole hell of a lot boring.
I’m going to eat myself into a gluttonous coma.

Speck of Spock

2008-11-20T00:40:00.000-07:00

The new up and coming big budget Star Trek movie is going to cause some misconceptions of the real budding Spock. This is what happens when the Spock of the future sends mechanical droids with organic skin back in time to now, telling the writers of this new movie what he was/is/will be like with a gift basket of 40 billion dollars.
When Spock was born his name wasn’t Spock it was Speck, as in a speck of sperm and egg or a speck of dust. He changed his name when he was older to Spock (which means larger piece of speck; like a wad of specks), highly disappointing his father who named him Speck Spock, making his legal name Spock Spock. He led his young life very rebellious. He used to put flesh eating worms from his home planet (that doesn’t die in stomach acid) into the soup and spaghetti of visitors eventually internally spilling their bowels. This messed up fragile relations with hundreds of aliens around the whole galactic galaxy of space.
It wasn’t until his father, Spork Spock (the inventor of the spork that was accidentally dropped on earth by a hasty leave by a clumsy alien) sent him to military school after catching his son smoking dilithium crystals that Spock started to fight his inner demons of conformity and started becoming the cool logical cucumber that he was destined to be. He soon developed a passion for vegetarian cooking and pursued a carrier in butchering bizarre animals for the consumption of starving wealthy eaters. This veered into meat sculpture with Cleon hippies which tested his strength against falling back into old habits with dilithium crystals.
It wasn’t until he won grand champion winner in a all out fierce competition of mind melding that he decided to explore the galaxy with a bunch of weak minded idiots so he could have it easy the rest of his life.

The Duped

2008-11-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

When a movie gets to the part where a security guard lets in a asshole that duped him they never veer off the storyline and show him getting severely demoted or fired or even show him getting his ass reamed by a not-so-pathetic looser which can be highly entertaining. This character has a whole life and no one is paying attention to him. Yeah, he might get his own fifteen minutes of fame in a story about him later on, but it is highly unlikely because people want to see movies with clever characters that can dupe security guards.
You could even show him going home and getting drunk on cheap ass crappy beer because he can’t afford to get drunk on the good stuff. He could only afford two six packs of Fat Tire so instead he got a 24-pack of Natural Light so he could get plastered. In a deep drunk he tries to call all of his ex-girlfriends and tells them that he misses them deeply and they all hang up on him.
I don’t know how much you could show of the guy in the movie, but show something because these characters just make themselves look cooler while the security guard looks dumber. So instead of showing him getting drunk and calling all of his ex-girlfriends have him dupe someone else. You could have him dupe a five year old into giving him his chocolate pudding cup or what would be better would be duping a person that dupes all the time so it doesn’t really matter. Like how about having him dupe a movie star into doing a bad movie because movie stars do bad movies all the time and they can just give the excuse that you never know how a movie is going to turn out, you can only make a fair calculation.
Maybe a little apology by the person that duped the security guard at the end of the movie; a little closure. Like a bakers dozen of donuts or free tickets to their movie or a job doing something where he doesn’t look so stupid. “I’m sorry I duped you man, but I had to make it out of Croatia before my arch nemesis could catch me so I had to dress up like a singing messenger for your not-so-pathetic boss. Here’s a bunch of donuts.” So you can get fatter and more pathetic looking.

Solar Polar Bears

2008-11-12T16:25:00.001-07:00

If we sever ties with the nature managers then we won’t get the solar energy we need to maintain a green ecosystem from the polar bears in the uninhabitable regions of the very cold part of the world. We’ll have to start drinking Mr. Pibb instead of Dr. Pepper and mirror colas like Dr. Thunder because without the alternative energy that powers the biospheres that grows the twenty-three flavors for Dr. Pepper and mirror colas they will cease to exist unless if we find an alternative to the alternative energy. Maybe we can alternate the alternative energies for twenty-three days on at one alternative energy supplier to the other alternative energy supplier for another twenty-three days. When the flavor growers at the biospheres turn on their power on day one they can stick out their chests and say, “Initiate flavor blast-a-licious growing session one!”
Wolverines seem like a fine candidate to attach solar energy panels on to; though small and not large like a polar bear, wolverines subject themselves to sunlight more than polar bears. We’ll have to find sharp shooters to attach the paintball morphing solar panels to the wolverines because putting them down like polar bears isn’t as efficient. There is a great need to put down the polar bears because they are more dangerous than wolverines and it takes forever to cover the polar bears with the right solar material.
My colleagues all agree that Dr. Pepper is way to tubular to ignore this possible epidemicful lack of delicious mouth pleasing refreshment. We would all go into shock without our daily insulin shots of Dr. Pepper and eventually fall into heavy chaos in the streets and the homes. In the streets riots, kleptomania and pyromania for all the maniacs in all areas of the city, suburb and country (cows are flammable). In the home dishes will biodegrade in the sinks while the carpets grow floppy unusable paper plates; moms will become dads and the children will become parents.
So it is imperative that we keep the ties with the nature mangers and consider upgrading from hemp to nylon rope.

Sinner Saves

2008-11-10T22:03:00.001-07:00

When I walked out from the Dinosaurs Are Awesome store with my two trash bag sized bags of toys and dinosaur funness I saw a group of children flinging mashed potatoes at a huge church sign. After I put the fun bags in my car I waddled across the street and I asked them why they were proceeding to deface public property. They said that America has a lot of potatoes and they already flung thousands of potatoes at a bunch of other things and scraped them into buckets, so they thought recycling the fun was the best thing to do because they couldn’t eat it since it was all riddled with dirt and glass and bugs and kryptonite.
They also thought since they were flinging it at something that god owned then they would be forgiven. I told them they should be flinging it at something more fun like preachers or nuns then. They said they already did that and though people are more gratifying to throw at they thought a stationary object was easier to throw at because they don’t try and stop you; they take it like Jesus did just previous to his crucifixion.
They reassured me that I didn’t need butter, cheese, gravy, sour cream or bacon to make this throw any better. They showed me how to line up my shot and how to move my arm to get the right trajectory. It was like a one sided food fight that I was winning. I could make it feel like one big long win or little individual wins. In the midst of the barrage all of their cell phones went off in unison. It was time to play videogames apparently because one kid yelled as they were running away, “Why were we even outside when we could have already been playing videogames.”
I wiped away the glop from the sign and it said Jesus saves. I backed my car up to the church sign that was pounded with mashed potatoes and started shoveling the recycled fun into my trunk. Saving it from the trash.

Uniformed

2008-11-08T14:38:00.000-07:00

My boss handed me my uniform. It was lined with thumbtacks. I put it on as carefully as I could after shooting multiple local anesthetics in all over my torso making it regional or statewide maybe even a full time zone anesthetic. I tried to straighten it out, but it wouldn’t move. It just hung like it wanted to hang.
People would come up to me and post their notes on me so they wouldn’t forget what they needed to remember. ‘Pick up kids from school’ or ‘grab some cyanide for husbands dinner’ or ‘demean children when you’re irritable, but only in front of their friends’ or ‘polish the silver platter, but only when my parents tell me too or there will be no more things given to me on it’ or ’pick up extra hotdog buns, stupid packaging’. It was pretty useless because my blood would just saturate it and when they needed to be reminded I would probably be nowhere to be found. I think some people see thumbtacks and they need to put a note underneath it.
I would break into blood banks to keep me from keeling over. I would sleep standing up because it fucking hurt. Taking my uniform off would only make it worse, so I left it on and my skin and blood grafted to the thumbtacks and the uniform. It eventually became my skin, taking away part of my natural identity and consistently making me forget to buy two packages of buns when I buy hotdogs (yes that was my note).
I could work really hard and lift a lot of weights or starve myself or eat a lot to get this thing off of me. Lifting weights might increase my muscle mass to the point that the uniform couldn’t contain me anymore like it couldn’t contain The Incredible Hulk. Though my process would be extremely slow. I could expose myself to copious amounts of radiation while doing science experiments to make it go faster. I don’t think I need to worry about getting angry to remove this uniform.
The down side would be finding a cure with no masters in science and that means I’d rip even my favorite shirts the rest of my life. I can’t imagine what my sex life would be like. I’d be ripping every condom and vagina when the woman tells me my penis is small; impregnating the world with little green monsters like an inadvertent alien invasion.

Eager Beavers

2008-11-05T23:38:00.001-07:00

This one day I was hiking through the mountains and I got really horny. This doe, a deer, a female deer came up to me and offered herself to me because she saw how horny I was. I was many miles away from any human vagina so I said what the hell. Six and a half months later I got the knock on the door. It wasn’t the phone call because she doesn’t have digits of course and she doesn’t understand the concept of money to call me. I was a proud father of a human-deer boy. She didn’t want to get married because she knew neither of us would live comfortably in the others environment. Since he looked more like a deer she became the primary adult caretaker and we shared custody and now he’s an adult.
“Your son just got himself elected president of the Rocky Mountains!”
“Awesome! That’s fantastic!”
“It’s crazy because he is the first deer to be elected.”
“Who usually wins?”
“The lions.”
“The lions?”
“Yeah, all the way from Africa! Ain’t that some dictator bullshit!”
“Yeah, stupid top of the food chain even across seas!.”
All the media (nosey eagle-eyed eagles with beaver reporters riding on their backs) are reporting the first deer as president even though he’s half human. Granted his feet look like hobbit feet, his rear end is saggy, looks like he has a bad toupee and looks mostly deer; he is still half human. It’s like beaver and eagle want to overlook it because they are so eager to add the chapter in the history books or what they call hieroglyphs that is more storybook (storyhieroglyph). Is he a deer if he is half human? Isn’t he the first multi-species president? Its like the deer swallowed the human (which is probably physically possible, also).
All the other animals call him deer without even second guessing.

What Will Happen to Baby Jane?

2008-11-05T02:13:00.000-07:00

I found a baby doll in a dumpster when I was throwing out the trash. I took her home and cleaned her up, washed her hair and gave her a fresh pair of clothes (and a skull and crossbones tattoo) and a place to sleep until she gets back on her feet. She hasn’t gotten out of bed in ten hours. She probably hasn’t had a good nights rest in a long time. It’s crazy to think she hasn’t even lived that long and she has already messed up in her life. Living in a dumpster is the end of the road and she hasn’t even learned how to take steps or even be a human let alone put steps together to create a walk down a road.
I’ve never messed up. I guess some people are just stupid and they mess up even when they are born. It’s a good thing I let my parents take care of me when I was young and I left at the proper age of 19, 21, and 23. Some people are just too ambitious to leave like this baby Jane Doe. She might want to go back to the dumpster. She doesn’t have much of a chance of getting a job. A pacifier quality control tester if she can prove she has seen enough of a pacifier and it hasn’t been too long since she has used one. A led-level in paint taster tester which can turn lethal. The only job I could see her doing is being a daughter to an adopted family and she isn’t getting any younger; her cuteness is fading away though the perfect plastic texture of her skin ages slower than purely biological skin.
I haven’t called the authorities yet because I don‘t want anyone to mess this up. I was thinking about calling one of my buddies who runs an underground adoption agency and no he doesn’t run any sweatshops. I’m not sure if I’m going to call him because I haven’t seen what kind of families he gives children too. He’s probably just looking for that extra grand for that phat plasma TV. He knows how to find all the right papers though. He rips open packages of dolls in retails stores in the middle of the aisle and steals the ownership papers from the back.

Shit Where You Eat

2008-11-02T06:50:00.000-07:00

I had the urge to start a garden. I know it’s not the right time of the year, but I act on my urges. Especially if something sparks the idea. Every time I see a dinosaur I want to ride it like a caveman version of George of the jungle. When I hear a Michael Jackson impersonator sing and see Lou Ferrigno green at the same time I want to dress up as an 1800’s proper gentleman and solve a mystery while occasionally snorting cocaine to give me that extra bump of intelligence. Whenever I see food I have to start a food fight and those can turn out to be pretty crazy if the Three Stooges show up (I think they have the same urges issue that I have).
Since my roommates are out of town this week I’ve been trying to conserve water by not flushing. I think the toilet is the perfect place for a garden. Though tiny, it has an endless supply of water and I never have to water it. The corn seeds are already planted without moving any fertilizer around. The only problem is snakes popping out from underneath like a pesky rabbit. I have to poop outside now with my roommate’s dog, but she has shown me some good ways of squatting without getting anything on me.
When my roommates come back I’ll show them my garden and see if they like it. They might just reward me with not having to pay my part of the rent because the value of my intelligence eventually pays in the form of advancement in society. All I have to do is wait until all of the real estate agencies give me money in thanks for making it easier to buy up farmland and whenever the government decides to give me the purple heart, the Nobel Peace Prize, and a Grammy for best damn person ever to live.
If for some strange reason my roommates don’t like it I’ll acquire a strew of them through different avenues other than outright paying for them since my roommates would have been my financial backers and install them in my basement and start my own farm without their dumb asses.

New Job

2008-10-31T17:21:00.000-06:00

I sat in my car waiting, smoking a cigarette and a joint while downing a six pack and snorting B complex. I was trying to take off the edge because I was starting a new job in fifteen minutes and left my home like a dumb ass a half hour before I was supposed to start, but nothing was working to calm me down. If I try and meditate I’ll fall asleep and I’ll probably lose the job I barely had. Maybe I could just look for another job. I don’t like doing it as much as this pre-job hysteria I‘m going through, but at least I don’t have to work. I can get my neighbor to pay my bills if I put a white sticker over my name on the bill and write his name in the place and put it in a new envelope and color it in crayons the color of their company symbol. He’s partially blind and semi-rich and a full human.
I think there’s a few things that cause this pre-job nervousness. New workplaces have there own silly rules and ways of doing things that seem perfectly normal to them. “After we do our mid-afternoon calisthenics we shave the goats in the rectory in the far left-hand corner of the parking lot in-between the dumpster and the other dumpster so we have bedding for the tomatoes in the walk-in so they never fall down on the floor and you have a Gallagher moment and you want to smash them which wastes the owner’s money which we like only to waste when lighting our cigarettes and candles every time the phone rings to notify the person getting the phone that the phone is ringing.”
The managers make it out that they are making reasonable work requests because that is just how they do it. “Everyone who comes in must give me five bucks if they want to work here everyday. If they don’t they wont make the already outlandish wages that the government forces us to pay you. Everyone must lick the top of this frog that looks like a hallucinogenic frog but it is actually a mind controlling frog so I can control you better and be more productive.”
They also put things in the wrong area and tell you to go get it and you can never find it. “Its next to the dragon’s blood three shelves up and to the right of the exposed dry ice, above the leaflets about ergonomics in the farmplace. You should have known that, it‘s how everybody does it. Give me five more bucks or I‘ll have you work in your Scooby Doo underwear and if you work hard enough I might give you your clothes back. Actually take your clothes off now you took to long to decide and give me that five bucks already.”
They also take to many precautions. “Shave your head and wear a diaper. Now we don’t want to get any hair in the food and there is definitely not time to go to the bathroom.“ “You staple the receipt to the bag so the customer doesn’t lose what they don’t need and you staple the horizontal staple with another staple that runs vertically just in case because you don’t want to lose it and this job is very important and if we don’t finish the job properly we’ll go home feeling incomplete.”
Actually, I just want a paycheck. I don’t care what I do, even if I have to cut corners to do it.

Indie Rock the Vote

2008-10-28T06:38:00.000-06:00

I got my mail-in ballot in the mail. I was expecting it by male, but a female package carrier slid it in my slot. Actually she jammed it in my slot with a door breaker-intoer that a S.W.A.T. team uses after she lined the slot with butter (and garlic, mmm). I picked it up off the floor, pulled a baguette out of my back pocket that I magically enhanced to hold ridiculously large items in and commenced in putting these two edible items together and devoured the deliciously wholesome and compelling snack. After I woke up from my snack nap on the doorway floor I licked the butter residue off and opened the envelope.
I pulled the ballot out of the envelope like it was one of those never-ending handkerchiefs out of the sleeve trick or the rare and elusive never-ending toilet paper roll out of the crotch zipper trick. Only this time it was the government that was the magician straying from their normal magic trick of taking the quarter from behind the ears without handing it to us at the end of the trick.
I cut off the paper with the machete I keep in my umbrella stand shaped like an umbrella. I didn’t have the patients to wait for it to pull all the way out, so I guess I won’t be voting for those judges nobody even knows anything about except for the felons in jail, on parole or probation who can’t vote for or against them anyway. I’m sure if they could vote they wouldn’t hold any grudges.
Before I got started on my ballot I thought I should make dinner so I shot the wild turkey that was in my garage, but then glass just shattered everywhere and I realized I shot the wrong wild turkey and licked my garage floor. I tackled the other wild turkey and ripped it’s head off, boiled its feathers off and dumped them on my roommate, degutted the turkey, stuffed it and slid it in the oven.
I grabbed my pencil, blue and black pen and stuck them in my right foot toes. I can write fast with my toes and I have more control with them if I have three writing utensils in-between. I worked hard into the night occasionally opening the oven door with my left foot to let the heat out and see if it was still cooking. My right hand held the grey booklet guide to all the amendments as my left hand held me up in my one armed handstand on top of my chair.
When I finished cooking my turkey I ate it and dumped the bones in the envelope with my ballot. I sealed the envelope with a tiny slop of turkey skin and my family crest stamp of large drunk Germans stuffing as many bratwursts in their mouths as possible.

Clean Machine

2008-10-25T04:00:00.000-06:00

I used to possess the unique ability to block out advertisements and people. The older I get the less I can block these things out and everyday is another day that I can abuse alcohol and drugs and that lessens my mind strength (I’m not the Jedi I once was with that raving metachlorian count). The past few years I’ve had these little moments where I briefly notice an advertisement or a person, it matters on what is around me. The first time it happened it was horrible. I was sitting next to someone while I was watching a commercial when the little moment happened and I violently vomited on her ice cream subsequently. These moments have grown longer and more frequent the last couple of years from split second moments to minutes, hours, days and now it has lasted a week. It’s like constantly pressing the channel button instead of the volume button; you don’t know what’s going on, but you know the solution to your problem is close. I’m in an invariable cold sweat.
I’ve noticed that I’ve formed new habits now. I have taken on the habits of other people and advertisements and have even one upped them. The one thing I’ve noticed is that my body is cleaner than it has ever been. That’s because I scrape my body delicately with a razor all over my body to remove the nasty, grungy top layers of my skin. I remove the top of my skull, soak my brain in pinesol and use pipe cleaners to clean the wax from my gooped ears. I drain all of my blood into a (sterilized) bucket (I do not use the mop bucket) full of deluded bleach and then I separate it with a liquid separater put it back in by way of the vain in my fully erect penis (yes my penis is still erect even with no blood in my body). I clean between my muscle fibers with a toothbrush and hand sanitizer. I scrub my intestines and organs with a brillo pad and comet.
I’ve added screws, bolts, gears and knobs to my body so it can be pulled out like a large intricate jewelry chest to show people that I’m not only clean on the outside, but even cleaner on the inside. If I’m not careful and I don’t put everything back in its place and lock it and I move to walk around I look like Inspector Gadget when all of his gadgets malfunction at once.

Lest Ye Be Judged

2008-10-23T01:38:00.000-06:00

A judge is always analyzing what happened in the past. I’m sure when he gets home to his wife and kids he talks about the present in past tense. “I picked up the salt shaker and salted my steamed broccoli because my wife is always watching my health and she never salts anything.” He probably speaks when he doesn’t even need to. He tells his family that he salted his broccoli with the salt shaker while they were watching him do it. “As my son Albert handed me the newspaper… I said, as my son Albert handed me the newspaper I thanked him and continued to ignore him even though I knew his grades were slipping.” He even exposes deep feelings from in his head that normal people usually keep bottled up. “Its okay father, I got a tutor and he’s going to help me bring my grades up.” It clears up the air very easily compared to other families. “I was relieved when I heard what my son said. Why didn’t I think of that? I was so wrapped up in my career…” But it can also cause problems, also. “…and that my secretary was threatening to sue me for sexual harassment if I didn’t go back to sleeping with her during recess and give her my pudding cup during lunch.”
It can also amplify feelings that don’t normally get amplified. “She was flinging anything she could grab; a vase, dishes, the pot that my secretary made me in her pottery class and I told my wife that it was our daughters. Ouch! She was getting closer, she actually grazed my ear.” And what‘s that saying? A broken rollercoaster is always right at least twice a day. No wait, that‘s a clock. I guess the real saying isn‘t as cool. If you fall off the rollercoaster you can always get on another one after you get out of the hospital and go through years of fear counseling. “I really want to tell her about the villa I bought for us on the French coast, but I don‘t want her to think I‘m just bribing her to calm down.” Or maybe it’s just real estate can save a marriage.

Dear Deer

2008-10-22T00:58:00.000-06:00

I was thinking of getting a few pets. A deer possibly an eagle. I’d have to put an extension on my fence and a roof. The fence would have to be really sturdy and hard because I’d use these pets for hunting practice and if the bullets bounce off it it increases my chances of hitting them. I’d have to hire a vet every time to keep my target practice alive because I’m sure they aren’t cheap. The deer might be cheap, maybe I could find a mountain man to kidnap me one; I might have to sacrifice my taxidermy collection. I think I’ll call him dear deer because he should be a dear and he’s a deer (if he isn‘t a dear I‘ll call him dead meat). Eagles are on the other side of the financial spectrum because they’ve just been dropped from the nest of the endangered species list. I’ll probably just have to sell my Superdome or my White House or my rickety old Leaning Tower of Pisa.
I just hope I don’t neglect dear deer like my treadmill and just hang my laundry on his antlers then he’ll just be dead-to-me deer. That’s when my taxidermy gift comes in handy, but I don’t want to just trade stuffed animals for a big stuffed animal that’s like trading dog poop for deer poop. Your supposed to improve upon a trade like dog poop for cow poop that can grow shrooms (yummy or happy or lethal), flowers, food, and a funnier flinging agent (though not as funny as monkey poo, but not as funny as a cow throwing his own poo). Dog poop is only good for watching people step in it, on purpose with a flaming bag or by accident in the park (or in any setting actually).

Kick Ass Kick

2008-10-20T01:25:00.000-06:00

I’m going to practice all of my karate moves in the morning. First thing. My alarm is set for 8 am. Wait… that’s too early. I’ll get up at 10 am. It’ll still be first thing. Instead of jogging a few miles or reading the bible for an hour like most people do I’m going to practice my karate moves to lose weight (or to stave off my self-consciousness). It’ll be my own version of Tae Bo except I’m not going to commercialize it and bullshit millions of people into looking ridiculous. I’m just going to bullshit myself into thinking that I don’t look ridiculous and tell myself that I’m one kick ass son of a bitch. I might put up a couple of posters of Chuck Norris, Bruce Lee, Jet Lee, and Jackie Chan with verbal bubbles telling me the same thing. Some of them might say, “Prepare for battle!” or “Your fast twitch muscles need to be faster,” or “I can’t believe you put up posters of these pussies next to mine,” or “If I wasn’t a poster I’d kick your ass Chuck Norris,” or “White people can’t know karate. All white people know how to do is push papers.”
The last time I did this I got too carried away and kicked a hole in my bedroom door and kicked my TV. TV’s don’t cave in like they do in the movies, I didn’t even crack the glass. Who knows how crazy I could get carried away this time. Lets just hope there aren’t any small babies around and enemy ninjas instead. I can handle ninjas if they aren’t too stealthy. Like if they were wearing jeans and flannel shirts instead of sleek black robes and open faced like a sandwich can be served sometimes and they trip on loud clunky boots and one or two them suffer from turrets syndrome and some of them haven’t gotten all of their merit badges and they all stuffed themselves with girl scout cookies. I could take them all down quicker if a few of their appendixes were about to burst and I kicked them right in the bulls eye and they exploded on a few others getting in their eyes so they can’t see and then one of them accidentally knocks the light switch and I push the rest down the stairs.
Maybe I’ll get up at 11 am… or 12 pm.

No Way Alleyway

2008-10-18T02:50:00.000-06:00

I delivered food to a smelly ass factory in a back alley today. Where an alley usually runs was a long narrow factory that took up five blocks with walkways connecting them over the streets. The sign that usually says ‘one way’ with an arrow pointing down the alley said ’no way’ with no arrow on the end. It was a politician factory. I watched them dump cheese whiz, paint thinner, ground beef, formaldehyde, tang, old drunken lady throw-up, diseased skin, hydrochloric acid, spam, and Jim Gaffigan’s half eaten hot pocket without a specified date of when he threw it in the trash into a huge skinny vat that emitted a stench similar to the insides of the animal that Luke Skywalker was shoved into in the second Star Wars movie to prevent him from freezing.
They had a cook cooking the ground beef on the side and I couldn’t help but scoop up a clump deftly without burning my hand that much on the large flat grill. I followed with a few spurts of cheese whiz and a couple gulps of tang. I always wanted to erase my identity so I dipped the tips of my fingers in the spam and then realized I’d need something stronger and tentatively dipped them in the hydrochloric acid. That worked. It pains me to type this blog, but all of the attention I’m getting makes up for it, almost. It’s really gross licking the cheetos cheese powder off of my bandages rather than my fingers.
It took me some time to find the right person who ordered the food I was delivering it to. The place was very unorganized. The meat wasn’t properly refrigerated according to health code standards. The scientist that worked their didn’t have their hydrochloric acid and formaldehyde properly bottled. It was just hanging out in open beakers bubbling and frothing and seething angrily like a bunch of rabid dogs. The person I delivered the food to didn’t even know he ordered the food, actually he didn’t even know he was working there and asked if I knew where the closest temp agency was. I speculate he was either drugged or bludgeoned.

Not Remote Control

2008-10-16T02:15:00.000-06:00

I lost the remote control for my TV. I also lost the remote control for the remote control. If I had it I would press the big red appear button that takes up almost the whole rectangle and it would pop in to thin, medium or thick air. The green sliver of a button that isn’t labeled I press if someone else is using the remote and it dematerializes before they look down again and I laugh as I turn the channels as rapidly as I want.
Now I have to create a remote control for the remote control for the remote control. I’ll stitch it onto my hand so I’ll never lose it. I’ll call it the not remote control because it isn’t and it never will be remote under my couch all by its lonesome or with just one other one (there might be a full burial ground down there for all I know, but I‘ll leave this sentence written the way it already is because I already put in a lot of work to write it and the more I write about it the further I get away from it even though I‘m still in it).
I could just tell you how I’m going to make it. That would be what you expect, but I don’t want to give away my secrets of electronic wizardry. Then you’ll go and duplicate it and make millions of dollars off of my genius. You would slightly alter them so you could have a mute button for real life. Shut anyone up when you want to; nagging wife, annoying kids, bragging husband, insistent mother, arrogant boss, etc. Or you would make a button that would make money appear in front of you, it’s still forgery, but you could hide the evidence and use it again very easily.
My new design will have a loss of knowledge ray on it and after it’s invented I’ll use it on myself so no one could ever torture it out of me or I couldn’t get greedy with it. The only downside is that I’ve never made one and I could turn myself into a vegetable. I’d need a test subject to perfect it on. A very smart person would be the best subject because I’d have a lot of intelligence to work with and I’m really good at messing things up.

The Smooth Mechanism That Glides the Cradle

2008-10-14T01:38:00.000-06:00

I went through a school zone with my car when they were kicking students out of school (they just love school, those silly kids don‘t know when to stop learning). They’ve really spruced up their safety precautions since the last time I went through a school zone. Now they have you put your car on a large conveyor belt that is three feet eight inches high while you crawl underneath it for the whole quarter of a mile. They have the whole police force laying down next to each other clocking you so your crawl doesn’t exceed one mile per hour. It serves a good purpose of teaching the kids that when they learn to drive they should be as scared and nervous as much as humanly possible but still be able to steer because composure is important or your considered a weak person and you have to be strong or people will pick on you and if that happens your whole life you‘ll turn out to be Charles Manson or one of his dames and us parents wouldn‘t have children to boast about to everybody else boasting about their children and then people will make fun of us parents and then we‘ll kill you kids like serial killers.
The drivers aren’t the only ones with a precaution, they also wrap the kids in bubble wrap and especially the hands so they can’t pop the bubble wrap intentionally (I think they poke holes around the mouth so they can breath). They package them in large boxes and ship them over night to their house. They slap a fragile sticker on the side, unless if you qualify for the reduced price lunch then they just slap the box around to keep them in line.
I think they should take it to the next level just in case one of the teachers didn’t wrap one of the kids right and a car falls off of the conveyor belt. We should all just be chained up and led like a chain gang or packed up in a pod and slid through an air pipe like at the bank (we’d have to empty the change out of our pockets first).

The Notebook

2008-10-13T02:08:00.000-06:00

I found someone’s notebook in the middle of the road. I debated on picking it up because it wasn’t like I found a briefcase full of money that some mobsters lost. I was taking a risk on picking it up because it could be a thirteen year olds journal full of whining about how fair and just the world and their parents have turned out to be. I was hoping that it was a compelling drama about a sexually budding woman in the form of her own journal, but it just ended up being plans on taking over the world. A bunch of schematics on human war machines with gene splicing and cloning to make his own Boba Fett army. He would train them on a remote island so he had to become a movie star before he did any of this.
I looked around to see if anyone was looking at me and put the notebook in my laptop bag. I thought this was a pretty good find. I didn’t know if I was going to use this or not, but in case I had the urge to control the world this would come in handy. It started to burn a hole in my bag as I headed up Stout St. I wanted to look at it again; I was starting to wonder how quickly I could take over the world. I’d have to steal some money to get liposuction and plastic surgery. I could rob a bank and flee to Venezuela or South America somewhere and have a cheap experimental facial reconstruction done to make me look like Johnny Depp and then I could have a weird man crush on myself. I could go back to college and get a degree in Biology, but that would take effort and my feeble mind has always had a problem with learning stuff I didn’t already know. I could pull off a big heist and pay a maverick mad scientist to create me an army. I’d need to go to acting school.
If I could control the world would I want to? Would it be better than my forty hour a week job? Controlling the world would probably be time consuming. I wouldn’t have time to write this blog anymore and we all know that would be a tragedy if I stopped. Woman do like men with power though, but the quality of the woman goes down the more greedy they get. I would of course stay perfectly level-minded and never give into greed, unless if being greedy gets me more power and then I would let myself get out of control to control the world.
Lets not be rash. Hold on to the notebook. Maybe I could sell the knowledge to someone more eager and live a short but rich and labor free life.

Canned Marriage

2008-10-11T03:24:00.000-06:00

I went to the grocery store to pick up some food for my stomach. It’s also nourishment for the last few brain cells that have trailed down to my medulla oblongata and will hopefully make it‘s way back up to my cerebral cortex before I stand up so I can remember how to get to my bed. Oh, wait, I am in bed (they found their way). I wore my extra long trench coat which resembled Vamperilla’s wedding dress when she got married real young as a stripper learning the trade. I had two little people Vamperilla look-alikes hold up the back of my trench coat so if I ran out of basket space to hold things in I’d hold them in my trench coat and I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand eating grapes that have been dragging across dirty waxy tile. It’s like eating eyeballs that have been tied to a basketball players shoes that were playing on a court in the swamplands of the Sahara dessert in the middle of winter on a full moon. Or something like that. I tend to mix up my metaphors.
I walked down the aisles like it was my wedding day; down the aisles, never up and slower than molasses boasting my vaginal rejuvenation with a wreath of flowers around my flower. I ignored all the second cousin healthy rice chex and the elderly bran muffins and smiled at my maids of honor Belgian éclairs and best men ten gallon buckets of ranch dressing. I stuffed cake in my own mouth in the bakery section while the night stocking crew wasn’t looking and that was most of the time because they looked at me like I was revolting for some strange reason. They’d probably let me run out of here with a shit load of free groceries just to get me to leave, but the noble security guard has a thing for normal weirdo’s like me.
After I found the bottle of aspirin I was looking for I waddled (the bacon that I duct taped to my thighs caused me to be a bit bow legged) to the preacher and paid for the single item I was paying for. When I looked in his honest eyes and heard his slightly deep articulate voice I got caught in a trance and I couldn’t stop paying him. It wasn’t guilt for all the bacon I was cooking in my sweaty crotch. I was compelled by his passion for the lord and his way of dragging out a single thiry second point about companionship in your choice of paper or plastic to forty-five minutes of over explained. I was handed my marriage license that cost me ten bucks and it had a bunch of coupons on the back for half off the next wedding. They can afford that because the preacher hypnotizes you for a large sum of ‘charity’.

Little Things That Kill

2008-10-09T01:38:00.000-06:00

I met this woman the other day. Fantastic woman. Beautiful, smart and funny. She was even different. She didn’t act all ditsy and cutesy like all the other woman are trained to do at female world domination cult meetings thinking that’s what all dumb ass guys like so they can still run things their way but make them feel like they have the power. I couldn’t even see the demon(s) that were possessing her when I put on my night vision goggles when I pretended to bump the light switch and not find it; we all have our silly little tests. I stumbled upon this test three years ago when the woman I was dating at the time was in the military and she let me test out her new night vision goggles. I could see multiple demons pulsing her body trying to find a way out and I didn’t wait around to see if they did. I jumped out her window and got the hell out of there.
She had passed all of my tests. Even the get something from the guy while you’re in the sack. Like right when your doing it they start talking about that one thing you’ve been talking about all day like going to see her family or some far off friend during your only two weeks of the year off or that her car has broke down and she can’t afford to get someone to fix it and she only asks you to fix it indirectly and if you say no she threateneds to get off before you get off. She wasn’t trying to get something out of me unless if she just wanted to appease her horny monster inside her like I did. She didn’t even pressure me into seeing her again by making breakfast in the morning. She didn‘t abandon me either in the early morning. She didn’t even act passive aggressive and give me her phone number and put the pressure on me to call her.
She just told me she had a good time and she really wanted this to continue. As casual as I like to take it. She wasn’t all caught up in the rat race to get the white picket fence and the two and half kids or to show off her little prized possession to her female world domination cult. We decided to meet again and we did; we talked. Not about pop culture but about real things. We philosophized, talked about our dreams and why the world was why the way it was and is. We didn’t have to eat an expensive dinner and watch the drivel Hollywood feeds us. We just talked. Then she asked if I wanted to see her spaceship and she told me that she was an alien and confessed all of her dirty secrets about herself and I told her I didn’t care and told her about how fucked up I am. Then she ripped off her outer human shell and swallowed me whole.
Then I woke up in my cold bed alone sweating.

Don't Eat the Yellow Coconut Shavings

2008-10-07T01:41:00.000-06:00

I was arrested last night for conspiracy to infiltrate and eradicate office park bunny rabbits. I thought I was getting arrested for building a retractable stop sign on my car (some people actually obey it). I hopped into the integration room shackled in a rabbit suit and all (I built a gigantic carrot to my scale out of Halloween candy corn). They played bad cop good cop with me and I realized this instantly from watching all the one or two cop shows that are aired on television over and over again studying them. The bad cop brought in a couple of caged hawks with cages made of bird food (worms and rabbit guts). He didn’t say a word or wrinkle his nose. He waited for me to realize what was going on and when I did I ate my large candy carrot as fast as I could. When the hawks finished their cage they flew over to me and lifted up my rabbit head but didn‘t attack me; the cops plan thwarted by his own stupidity to see my guise. Who is the fool now HA HA! I thought. The bad cop left the room all huffy puffy with his fat hawks pinching at his leather gloves.
The good cop brought in a basket full of candy and fake grass made of coconut shavings dyed green and wrapped in colored plastic. “Don’t eat the yellow coconut shavings,” he told me. I asked, “Why?” “Because my wife dropped the opened super giant bag of coconut shavings from Costco on the kitchen floor and I thought it was snow and I tried to write my name in it with my urine.” “Did you finish writing it?” “No I never can. Damn my parents for naming me Chukwuemeka!”

Silly Symbols Made of Octopus's Deterrent

2008-10-05T01:01:00.000-06:00

I had to do my bills. Well I didn’t have to. I could have waited another month or two and then paid them but I already did that. I could not pay them at all, I know that’s an option, but I guess I want to function in society (I guess). I picked up all of my envelopes that I throw in the corner of my room that are doused in lighters fluid. Just in case I change my mind I can change it really quickly before it changes again. The envelopes are full of chopped up, pressed and cooked trees with symbols made out of liquid that octopus’s use as a deterrent. I wonder what the bill collectors would do if I wrote ‘I CAN’T READ THESE SILLY SYMBOLS’ across the bill? I wonder if they know that numbers are universal? They are stupid assholes.
I opened my desk and dusted off my check book. The leather case creaked from lack of care and proper oiling when I opened it. I wondered if I were to woo the bill collectors in some way if they could grant me amnesty and dismissal of anymore payments, but I do not bear beautiful breasts so a doubt builds in my mind. After I signed my name on the first check I noticed my signature looked like a demented smiley face so I added on to it. I gave him hair and a friend and some snacks and pints of ale. I drew a window in the background looking out at a vast landscape. The end of my fives look like grim reaper sickles and my fours like devil horns so I drew those in, also. Then it dawned on me that if I draw pictures for them they would take it as payment because they are miniature pieces of art. Art is like beautiful breasts.

Problem on Capital Hill

2008-10-02T14:13:00.000-06:00

I walked up to someone on Capital Hill who was sitting on the ground praying. A human (at least in outward appearance). A female (she had breasts) human (supposedly). I thought she was a homeless person at first but then I noticed her home laying right next to her. I asked her what she just did when she stopped praying. She said she was praying to god. Her cat won’t poop in the designated area she thought was the logical place for her cat to do her business and she was asking him for guidance. She keeps pooping all over the house and she doesn’t know what to do. She ripped out a clump of grass by her right thigh and ate it and pulled a bottle of homemade vinaigrette (booze) out of her large purse (shopping cart) and took a tiny swig (chug). She said, “Ah,” when she should have said, “Ew, why did I do that? I must be a tad bit delusional in my emotional state.”
I thought for a minute or few or several and deduced that I know nothing about cats and I could not advise her on what to do. Plus her house was just a little bit bigger than a litter box. I thought about mentioning it to her but it didn’t want the homemade vinaigrette all over me and a concussion.
Then I had an epiphany. I said, “I know how you can solve your problem.” “How?” “Have you ever noticed that building up there?” She stood up and turned around. “I… no… I didn’t even notice,” she took a swig of vinaigrette and tried to keep her balance, “…oh… wait where did it go? There it is.” “In that building are people who fix problems. They love solving problems for us U.S. citizens and they do a real good job and they never mess up and when they do mess up they apologize and they never lie, so you should walk up there and bang on their door.” “No more poop!”

Smashing Pumpkins

2008-09-29T15:26:00.000-06:00

I’d rather be smashing pumpkins. Year round. Put out your damn pumpkins already so I can smash them. I hate waiting all year for only a few weeks of pumpkin smashing. I am fairly courteous when I smash pumpkins though. I start with the ones the older people carved even though they are the nicest. Older people are just trying to show off. Little kids are just having fun. I wait until there are no more pumpkins to smash and then I smash theirs. They’ll learn that all good things come to an end and it comes back in the form of senseless senselessness when they are rebelling from silly holiday’s that won’t let them have any candy for free anymore. Then when you get to be my age it turns into your outlet for vandalism. Its kind of like nicotine gum when it is in season. Nicotine can’t grow in freezing temperatures or harsh winds or harsh rays or around happy people or around the Amish folk so it’s seasonal and they save it up to sell it year round and that‘s why they charge $500 per box.
I have different ways of smashing them, also. Throwing them out the window, into windows, into a large pane of glass held by two people on each side and into anything that breaks from the weight of a pumpkin. If I need to smash them as soon as possible like when the season first begins I use a golf club or a baseball bat and I do it right on their front porch and I’d try and make my splatter go to the neighbors garden gnome (so people will think he did it). Hole in one/homerun if I can get part of it to hang on the gnome’s funky pointed hat. Finding a pumpkin patch can be pretty sweet, but you’ve gotta work quick or a bunch of hillbillies will kick your ass.
Pumpkins can also be used for skeet shooting (a modified machine is necessary), hockey (with smaller pumpkins), dodge ball (with all sizes, but the bigger ones cause people to cry), any sport that has a ball, and anything your imagination can conceive. This year I think I’m going to smash as many as I can and throw them in the work van of my last employer that shorted me two grand. If I can smash more I’ll fill their work place. I might have to put in some extra hours at the office.

Beetsketball

2008-09-28T02:21:00.000-06:00

I snuck up to a group of children. As slowly as possible of course. I wasn’t trying to scare them… and I wasn’t scared of them. I wanted to play basketball with them. I tiptoed and shuffled as slowly as I could. If I ran up to them they probably would have screamed, “STRANGER DANGER!“ Every inch or so I introduced myself, every half inch I smiled or laughed jovially, every centimeter I threw candy in the air (laced/injected with beet and prune puree, but very deftly in-between the wrinkles of the packaging), every millimeter I praised them for being good kids and not kicking me in the shins and every micrometer I brushed a blade of grass.
By the time the group of children were congregated around me eating candy I became not a stranger and that nervous I hope I don’t get pegged with being an evil stranger was lifted off my chest, but the possibility of getting slammed with being a child molester still hung on my shoulders. The tapioca pudding the grocer smeared all over my shoulders was sliding down my back and won‘t get lifted off unless if it slides all the way down or if it is physically taken off, but no words or type of verbal interaction will take it off.
I tried to get their attention, but they were tastily engrossed in the candy. I wanted to play basketball and win. I never win at anything and I was feeling like a loser. Not like the song by 3 Doors Down, but more like the song that Beck did in the nineties (more like an original loser). I should have thought out my approach more thoroughly. I thought if you gave children candy they’d do something of equal value. I’ve seen it done hundreds of times. I’ll give you some candy if you go clean your room. I’ll take you to Disneyland if you do your homework. I’ll buy you a pony if you clean the gutters. I’ll buy you a real racecar if you mow the lawn. I’ll do your homework if you shave my back. I’ll rough up your principal if you get an A on your test. I’ll let you have a sip of beer if you role that joint already.
It also leads into young adulthood also. I’ll let you get on the alien spacecraft if you at least go to college. I’ll buy you a house if you marry a member of the opposite sex. I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine, but I’ll scratch yours a little bit more for a very condensed amount of time and with my handy robot back scratcher so I don’t have to pull a muscle and when you scratch my back you’ve got to take into consideration all the interest that has accumulated and you can’t scratch it until I say you can.

First Time Storyteller

2008-09-26T00:44:00.000-06:00

I’m sitting on top of a wall overlooking this town because I wouldn’t be lying underneath it. Unless if I was dead and buried there years before it was built. Well, I guess it doesn’t have to be years before it was built. Let me get on with the story, but it also doesn’t have to be before it was built because it could be torn down then I get buried there and then they rebuild it. I’ll move on to the story like I was saying, I’m sitting on top of a wall that over looks this town. I guess I wouldn’t have to be dead either. Someone could be mad at me for owing them money or something and they could bury me alive. And it wouldn’t have to be on or below it. They could pour the cement around me if they want to be creative. Hell, they wouldn’t have to bury me alive either. There are so many ways they could kill me. Anyway, I’m sitting on the top of this wall overlooking this town. Or is it a village. It’s too big to be a city. It’s just a tiny little thing. I could just prevent them from killing me by begging for my life, “Please mister don’t kill me. I promise I’ll pay you back on Monday.” Yeah, Monday because today is Saturday and that is a reasonable amount of time and it’s the end of the month when everybody gets paid except for me. Or instead of me begging for my life I could kill them all with a couple of six shooters like a cowboy. Then the tides would be turned and I would kill them and bury them in a creative manner. Yeah, that’s right. Or… someone could kill all of us in another way or a nuclear bomb could kill us all.
Like I was saying, I’m sitting on top of a wall overlooking this town…

Fare Trade

2008-09-24T01:11:00.000-06:00

The call woke me up at 7:30 this morning, about two hours before my alarm was about to go off and two hours after I went to bed and one hour after I fell asleep and right when I was having the awesomest wet dream of my life. I dreamt that my penis was a beer tap and a bunch of Suicide Girls would tug on my sack for icy cold brew and all the mugs had holes in them. When I woke up my bed was completely soaked. I guess dreams can return in different forms; I always thought that you could only have the exact same dream. At least I can understand the dream now, when I was a kid that dream was a nightmare because in the place of the Suicide Girls were the Golden Girls.
The call was the temp agency and they were desperate for people. The monkeys they were using got out of control and rioted and now the dolphins were running the business in succession. They told me they’d pay me fifty bucks an hour and I said, “Um… no and I didn’t know you were actually scraping (chopping) that much off of what I made an hour. You guys suck.” Then they said, “We’ll do sexual favors?” I said, “Um… gross you’re all men and ugly women.” “Alright, we didn’t want to have to do this, but we’ll make you immortal if you work for us for just one day. You’ll get to decapitate heads and gain powers after fighting for survival. You’ll have inside you blood of kings while being princes of the universe at the same time.” “FUCK YES!… I mean that sounds like a fair enough trade. If I could contort my arm through this cell phone speaker hole I’d shake on it right now. If we were both speaking on a rotary phone I could of course.” “Alright I’ll see you in fifteen minutes here at the temp agency, click.” He did say ‘click’ before he hung up, I do type these words grammatically correctly; he did say it with a cocky attitude and everything like I signed a deal with the devil and after he hung up I bet he laughed maliciously.
My job was laying asphalt without the big ass asphalt layer machine. One mini stone at a time (strategically placed; this is what the dolphins told me to do) after my esteemed colleague (Bill the guy with an endless amount of perverted jokes) slopped down the black hardening goop after mixing it in his portable caldron. I spent half the day in the port-o-potty (port-o-caldron) despite the angry stench that was forming, emulsifying, coagulating, digesting, cooking, growing, birthing, developing, inventing, painting, writing, speaking, loving, feeling, being and dying in its own filth.
I ate the check that they made out for Awesome Immortality and any day now I’ll probably feel another immortal. I better brush up on my sword fighting skills. The only time I’ve had to practice is when I’ve come across spontaneous medieval battles and sometimes they are far and few between.

Right in the Gullet

2008-09-22T03:31:00.000-06:00

Genies carve pumpkins with other peoples wishes. It’s a illegal maneuver if you ask me (actually I’ll just tell you). If I was a soccer ref I’d give him a yellow card right through the gullet. I’d set an example for all other ref’s to develop a Oddjob tactic of turning light material into harder material and learning the exact throwing science. The gullet is a part of the body most people don’t think about and the weakest part of the genie. Chinese noodles in mass quantities pours out with Grecian olives dipped in lamb blood out the gullet. It pours out forever if someone doesn’t snap their fingers twenty-eight times. It solidifies like fix-a-flat if the snapping is done correctly. Sometimes if you don’t get a full snap it cancels out and you have to start over, so lick your fingers first. Or don’t if you really think he disserves to die of suffocation. Yes, suffocation. He’ll continue to pour until it piles up so much around him that it suffocates him or if he decides to run he might die in many ways or he lives if someone wants to snap twenty-eight times correctly.
Genies are just like leprechauns; they’re deceitful little bastards. Well genies are big bastards and they can be hairy big bastards if they are in the likeness of Robin Williams.

The Hood That Could

2008-09-19T01:23:00.000-06:00

I looked at my calendar this morning to see if I planned anything for today and found bush pruning crossed off and practice hood sliding written right above it. Thank God! Bush pruning is so boring and that’s probably why I crossed it off. Now if it said spontaneously prune other peoples bushes then that would be exciting. Botanical vandalism. I could also brush up on my scissorhand skills. My goose still looks a lot like a terradactyl (the dinosaur; not a chick giving two hand jobs at once; there is no way I would make that by accident).
I put on my sweats because that is a good material to wear when practicing hood sliding. I know if I had to do it in real life I’d most likely be wearing jeans (or my underwear or my bare ass if I was running from someone’s angry boyfriend), but I’m just practicing and the less friction there is the more fun it is. I stretched my muscles and held them for nine seconds instead of the recommended ten because my way is always better. When I walked up to my car I stopped myself. Not because I changed my mind, but because I realized that if I practiced on my hood it would damage it and I didn’t have a stunt crew to change my hood out, so I did the inevitable. I ran upstairs and crossed out practice hood sliding and wrote beside it spontaneous hood sliding. I ran downstairs, slammed my door, and slid across my neighbors car hood.
Throughout my day I set off a few alarms, mostly likely dented several hoods and smeared one hood with the feces that usually cakes up around my anus hole (the more I move the larger my ass crack shows… alright I did that on purpose). One person actually caught me because he was still in his car (I was too excited to check, it was a ‘69 Charger like the one in Dukes of Hazard). He grabbed me once I completed the slide. At least he didn’t grab me in mid-slide.
He said, “Hey what do you think your doing buddy? Do you realize what kind of car you just did that to?”
I said, “Yes and that is why I did it!”
“You better pay for a new hood!”
“Um… I can’t do that, but I can give you some financial advice. Invest in feminine hygiene products stock because money is heavily flowing in that direction. Heavily flowing… heavily… flowing… (down) in that direction.”

Book Store Boobs

2008-09-18T00:45:00.006-06:00

Her breasts are constantly held up by her pregnant stomach while she crochets warmth for the body of the expecting. I stare like the pervert that I am as her breasts jiggle lightly when she gets the pattern rolling. When she forgets what the pattern is and looks at what the paper says I wait impatiently on the other side of the coffee shop in the book store while I write this blog. When she continues up again I feel like abandoning this blog all together, but my urge to tell the world about my perversion overpowers my perversion. She looks up and notices that I’m looking at her. Damn, can’t do that anymore. Well, at least not constantly.
Just twenty-one feet away a woman that I’m sexually attracted to is reading a book. She isn’t just reading the book she is dissecting it like an eager college biology student trying to prove herself as a intelligent person to her teacher sensei. Perfect, I could stare at her all day and she wouldn’t even notice. I think women are at the mountain top of sexiness when they’re reading a book or riding a bike. Even though her breasts aren’t jiggling they are still sitting there statuesque soaking up the knowledge relayed from her brain.
Her breasts begin to swell slightly putting strain on a few of her shirt buttons.What most people don’t know is that the breasts are active knowledge storing pods while being wonderful parts of femininity. They create a sense of confusion in the female when fondled because the knowledge isn't stored like it is in the brain, though I've never fondled a brain before. Eventually the male experiences confusion also when fondling breasts because the knowledge gets soaked up through the pores and the male isn’t used to having that much information in him at once.
The woman reading the book leaves my vicinity, before I could even finish that last paragraph. Damn, I thought I had hours of sexiness ahead of me. My attention moves back to the lightly jiggling breasts of the pregnant woman. She immediately notices like she was expecting my perversion to relapse. She then rumbles my attention by looking straight at me and holds up a freshly crocheted bra to her breasts and pulls down a feeding flap. I give her a thumbs up and she returns with a smile.

Trims Limbs

2008-09-15T00:51:00.000-06:00

I cut off my arms today. My left arm was easy. The right one was kind of tricky. I’m trying to make cut backs in my budget; literally. I got rid of the cable, health insurance, fresh gouda, paid porn, lavender & vanilla detergent, electricity for twenty-three hours a day, and I’ve made substitutes like bacon bits instead of bacon, tang instead of orange juice, bucket and ringer in place of washing machine (I also wear my clothes three days in a row, but I’ve done that for a long time), and one hooker instead of two or three… or four.
I cut my arms off because it saves me $3.33 in soap every month. It also discourages me to spend money because it’s harder to pull it out of my pocket. It has made my car more fuel efficient because there is thirty pounds less in the car ( I also hang my left leg out the window and that is probably another fifty pounds). You might be wondering how I drive, well with my chest and teeth of course.
Bird and squirrel taste better in a casserole than by itself (covering the meat in as many spices, vegetables and sauces as possible is important). The old propping up the box with a stick and pulling the stick with a string works just fine when trapping a squirrel and the occasional raccoon.
I scraped the paint off my walls and sold it to two year olds (it was led free of course). I bought a bunch of bibles and wrote an extra testament and resold them as The Bible: Special Edition with deleted scenes and director commentary by yours truly the man upstairs (in room 3G).

Midnight in the Streets of Good and Evil

2008-09-12T00:35:00.000-06:00

I took a stroll around midnight last night with the right tools for some good old fashioned vandalism; a bag of rocks, two bricks, a chisel (incase I need to shape these rocks or bricks), my lance (for any spontaneous medieval battles), a can of hairspray from the 80’s loaded with CFC’s (I stole a can of Aqua Net from my mom when I was 8 with the original intent to turn it into a flame thrower, but pussied out and instead turned it into an ozone layer damager), a coal burner with coal, my animal disintegrator ray, a gallon of rat droppings, and a flapjack whopper whacker (it’s Ukrainian made; flapjacks are grandma’s homemade recipe with orange zest, nutmeg and bottled TLC). I’m carrying them in two large gym bags so people think I’m an avid workouter, traveling antique salesman or gym bag salesman.
I could smell intact material and it sickened my gut. It brews its own stagnant aroma like road kill skunk. If I break or alter things they open up like flowers and just when you think it’s going to smell like flowers it smells like a mixture of cookie dough and freshly squeezed sexy naked woman (by my hands). I found a quiet side of town and set up my flapjack whopper whacker three feet from a drive-thru this way sign. I looked around to see if there were any cops or people who don’t care if I trash intact material so I could get some much needed attention, but neither were present. I turned the knob, pressed the button in the middle of the knob and flipped the switch that was on the upper-right corner of the button that is on the knob. That activated the internal hibernator that warmed up the celluloid fiber interrogator so the fizzle hollow romper lit the little red light bulb that showed that the machine was ready to be turned on. I kicked it and a flapjack the size of a tire engulfed the sign making a cracking noise. I lifted the flapjack to see and smell the beautiful damage. I licked the air.
I dumped the gallon of rat droppings in the flapjack whopper whacker and let it form a nice poop patty while I walked to my next intact material. I found a nice fully intact dumpster in the back of the restaurant and seized my opportunity. I turned the whopper whacker intensity dial up to eleven and kick the back. The poop patty indented the front of the dumpster by six inches. I licked the air and thought how wonderful it was that I made two disgusting things into something so beautiful.

Uh, Sir? There's a Blue Hair In My Food

2008-09-09T01:19:00.002-06:00

Where to eat? Where to eat? The question that drives me crazy when it’s time to feed the tapeworm. I know I’ve eaten out too much when I don’t really crave anything or I’m not in the mood for anything. It might just be that I’m just getting older and the right too choose what I want to eat has become lackluster (I haven’t eaten any vegetables in ten years, except for onions and burger fixens). It also doesn’t help that I have a limited budget. If I had a unlimited budget then I wouldn’t mind having a 90oz steak, three lobsters or expensive ass food that I’ve never even thought about like grey poupon or caviar (but I did think of those).
I had a hard time deciding where to eat my lunch today and after driving down Wadsworth for a half hour I decided I’d eat at the next place I see. I’ll never do that again. When I pulled up to Black Eyed Pea at four in the afternoon (yes that is when I usually eat lunch because I really don’t get out of bed until something motivates me like waffles or breasts; female breasts not chicken breasts) a sea of blue haired and saggy-necked feet shufflers shuffled to the entrance from the parking lot. They were all walking so slow that I decided to just park my car in the middle of the aisle because I could probably go in and eat and come back out and some of them would still be crossing the parking lot. The smarter ones left their house after lunch at 10 am and they got here at 3 pm and figured out what they wanted to eat in a half hour (even if the menus were in audio they wouldn‘t be able to hear them).
To get to the door before the others (twenty feet before the door) I did have to trip a few canes, throw drugs on the ground, say, “Nanna!” in a little kids voice and set up a mock adult diaper stand (we change for change as the company motto). It saved me ten minutes of waiting in the middle of the two sets of doors at the entrance. I was ushered to sit at a booth in-between two sets of four blue haired and saggy-necked feet shufflers, it was either that or sit at a table right in front of a group of them while they all pinched my cheeks (while I was eating) until they were black and blue (or until their fingers fell off).
My dining experience was fine because like normal everybody usually keeps to themselves. It was the conversations that went on around me that I found to be disturbing. Well the first one I heard was on the way to my table. They weren’t even speaking they were just mumbling, drooling and croaking (not dying but making toad-like croaks). The next conversation I heard someone speak a sentence, “Lindsey Lohan reminds me of Pippi Longstocking, but instead of being strong and witty she’s loose and shitty.” What I found to be astonishing was that they knew who Lindsey Lohan was and what loose meant. Then the next sentence someone said and redeemed their reputation for being old by saying, “When I’m bored I play connect the dots with my liver spots,” and totally proved their randomness and inattentiveness. I then thought about what they said and thought that maybe it wasn’t randomness and inattentiveness, but that they are so old and they’ve seen so much and that they’re just sick of what everybody else has to say and they just say what they want to say. That wasn’t the case because the third sentence of that conversation was, “I hear Lindsey Lohan’s freckles aren’t freckles, but liver spots.” The last conversation I overheard (and it wasn’t that hard to over hear it either; it was from the other side of the room) was about silent film and that they should go back to it because these speaking films aren’t doing so good.
I had the urge to start a food fight because I was so bored, but I was afraid that no one would join in. Getting back to my car wasn’t a problem because I just used some of the same tactics to get in, but I did have to run over a few stragglers.

Wand in a Box

2008-09-07T02:16:00.000-06:00

No one told me that I could use magic until a lying woman of the night told me sometime during the day. She wasn’t a liar, but lying on the ground. She wasn’t on the clock, but sun bathing in the shade with a bottle of bourbon in two hands like an infant (she put a little rubber nipple on it). She sat up, spread her legs in a wide V and opened up her box. It was a cardboard box, not her pleasure box. She said, “You can do magic. Here is your wand.” The box had a wand in it. “I didn’t know I could do magic…” I said, “how did you find me?” She said, “I didn’t. I waited. I could have gone and found you, but I’ve been drunk since 1986.” “Why didn’t you find before 1986?“ “You wouldn’t have understood. Six year olds are idiots.“ I picked up the wand and the box disappeared. “Did I do that?” “Yes, conjure me up a new box in case the three other people I need to give wands to cross my path.” “I don’t know how I did it?” “Fine then! I’ll just go find me another box! It’s not like they grow on trees or anything!” “They are trees.” She cackled loudly and threw her bottle at me, so I ran off.
I eventually figured out how to use it, kinda. I can make it do magic, but I haven’t learned how to make it do what I want. I tried to make a vending machine give me a snickers almond bar, but the vending machine started singing ‘Old Man’ by Neil Young and its push open lip bent very flexibly to mouth the words to the song. I tried to reach in and grab the candy bar whenever the push open lip opened wide enough, but I wasn’t quick enough. I then resorted to shaking the machine and it wouldn’t dislodge any candy like all the rest of the damn things. I pointed my wand at it again and it went up in flames for a few seconds and then turned into a block of ice. I didn’t have time to wait for it to melt, so I proceeded to walk home.
My feet started to ache. I wanted to do some magic, but like anyone else in this situation I hesitated. I pointed the wand at the ground while I thought about floating to my destination with a block of cement as my magic carpet. A huge block of cement covered my wand and my wand hand (my writing hand, not the two hands that I type with, but the one I used to sign the Declaration of Independence with in one of my recent dreams). After I stood dumbfounded for a few moments, the huge block crumbled.
I tried to break the wand over my leg, but it was harder than metal. I tried to throw it into a landfill, but it wouldn’t leave my hand. I went back to give the wand back to the lady of the night, but she was gone from her shade. She left her empty bottle on the ground with a note inside. The note read: Ha Ha! Sucker! I knew you’d come back and read this note so I’m just going to waste your time and make you read these words that aren’t even saying anything. If you’re still reading this then you’re still trying to figure out what happened. Give the wand to someone else you effing moron!

A Squid of Licorice

2008-09-05T02:14:00.000-06:00

Today I ditched work. I called in and told them that my hemorrhoids were flaring up my taint like a flamethrower and fighting the army of crabs on my crotch. Halfway through that sentence my boss tried to stop me and I would have elaborated on it and said that I could turn this into an epic war movie, but he hung the phone up. I took that as go find the proper ointments to go drown this army like the pharaoh’s army that was chasing Moses and his people (he’s very religious, so I could only imagine the metaphor he would have used). Just don’t get swallowed by a whale like Jonah then you’ll give him crabs and the crabs inside crabs and I’ll probably fire you because you took three days off.
The first thing I did was read the Bible once I got off the phone because I felt like a sinner and asked the Lord for forgiveness, but he didn’t tell me I was forgiven so I yelled my prayer as loud as I could. He didn’t respond so now I’m going to have to live with this sin for the rest of my life because he won’t tell me that I’m forgiven. I then chastised myself for forty-five minutes by slapping a bunch of foot long licorice on my back. I succeeded at molding half of the foot long rope into one blob like silly-putty or play-dough. My back was red with red 40. I then slapped the wad of licorice on my wall and now it looks like a squid tried to squeeze through a tiny hole in my wall.
I felt like all my sins were lifted, so I broke into my neighbors house and made breakfast, waffles and omelets and left the mess. I broke out his back window, just so I could say I not only broke into a house, but broke out of a house. I immediately jumped in my car and drove around town on the wrong side of the street as much as I could, occasionally on the sidewalk until I crashed into a 600 pound man in a nightgown (I drive a little dodge colt hatchback which weighs about 350 pounds). I then jumped on the nearest bus and then jumped back off the bus because public transportation smells too much like public restrooms.
As I was walking down the street a TV store stopped me because the RNC was playing on like twenty twenty inch TV’s.
I then had an epiphany and ran to the barber. He gave me a shave and cut almost all my hair off and combed it sideways in a traditional manner. I then went and bought a suit, took out my earrings and removed all my tattoos with lasers and swords. I found this to be the ultimate rebellion from myself. I then bought a briefcase and sat in lobby’s like I was waiting for an interview. The last office I went to I actually snuck into a meeting and added to the excitement by reading off numbers, profit margins and employees who were skipping out early and staying in the supply room too long with members of the opposite sex and the same sex.
When I got home I hugged my roommates like they were my children and asked them about their day at school and so on. They insisted on taking me to a mental doctor (a doctor that is mentally unstable). That’s when I snapped out of it and tied hair extensions in my hair, stuck stickers and temp tattoo’s everywhere (even in places I didn’t have them before), and glued hair (maybe pubes) from the trashcan on my face.

Into the Great Unknown

2008-09-04T01:50:00.000-06:00

I went rummaging through my parents attic today. The original goal was to clean it out, but I didn’t do any energy drinks and ever since I told my parents I’d clean it out for them I knew I wasn’t going to achieve that goal. I found an old box of condoms that I guess my parents never got around to using since they got married. I thought it was interesting to see what a condom looked like from the early seventies, so I opened the box of course. I couldn’t believe the size of them; they were tiny. I tried one on my penis and I couldn’t even get it over the head and I’m definitely not rockin’ the monster cock (not even close). It then dawned on me because my brain computes information really slow that men back then had tiny penis’. By the size of the condom I’m surprised that humans have reproduced this long and we haven’t died off as a species. Penis’ back in like Jesus’ time must have only ejaculated like one sperm in a fit of orgasm.
I didn’t find any old sacks of weed. I was kind of hoping I would because weed is like wine and if I was going to be up here in this attic all day I was going to need something to pass the time, but instead I found an old sasquatch costume and that did the trick until the heat got to me which was like five minutes. I found photo’s of a third sibling, landmines from Vietnam, paintings of vagina’s, an orange tree with limes growing on the bottom left side and a toupee made of sheep hair. I found at treasure map that led to other side of the attic where I found an opened treasure chest and a note that was written in sasquatch with a post script in Cleon.
I also found an old laptop from the seventies and that is what I’m typing on for this blog entry. It took me the rest of the day because each key is the size of a king sized bed.

Fetter Letter

2008-09-03T03:03:00.000-06:00

I was separating a one pound bag of M&M’s yesterday morning by letter (m’s and w’s) and by color (I like to feel like a rock star sometimes) when an envelope was slid through my mail slot. The government, I thought, couldn’t be on the clock today, labor day? I picked up the pace of the separating; I had to finish separating first because if I don’t I’ll yell at myself and flip over this coffee table in a fit, but we all know that this would really just be the straw that breaks the camels back and it was really pent up frustrated artistic rage. When I placed the last red w in the paper cup I immediately went for the letter. There wasn’t any postage on it, unless if the count lipstick in the shape of lips postage; they wouldn’t be able to see the paid postage, but maybe they could scan the lines that lips created. I was afraid to open it; too many sloppy relationships; it could be a summons, but then it could be M&M’s. No it can’t be M&M’s, the letter isn’t bulky. It could be paper candy, but then it would be thicker than this. It could be a flat candy apple artificially flavored culinary fusion flat cracker, but then this could be napalm or agent orange or a layer of Michael Jackson’s nose (Informants have heard and told me that his nose sheds like a snakes nose and body and that wasn‘t plastic surgery and a young child ripping off the old one).
After debating to open, I opened it, but slowly because if it was something deadly then the slower I open it the less deadly it becomes (if only people knew that when the Unabomber was doing his thing). My fingers trembled and my body quivered causing the M&M’s that I stuffed in my underwear and the few I lodged into my ass crack to fall to the floor. Damn, I thought, now I can’t eat those. I eventually opened the letter and it was from an old friend of mine saying that she was in town last week for the DNC and she didn’t stop by at all because she wanted to prove again that I need her body. To prove that yet again that she has me wrapped around her finger she put a plane ticket in the envelope to Seattle, WA, where she lives. I looked all over my garage for agent orange or napalm or a bomb, but I guess I used it all on my other ex-girlfriends and their angry new boyfriends and their friends and family and their houses and their TV’s and kitchen appliances and cars and etc.
I ate a blue M&M and pondered. They should really be called M&W’s.

I'm a Bitch Now

2008-09-01T02:18:00.000-06:00

Ouch, my bladder is full of mucus or something, it hurts. When I don’t have a tissue or a napkin I pinch my nose when I sneeze. If I can’t spit anywhere I swallow my mucus. It might be thick enough to be considered a solid. Is mucus confusing to the digestive track? Is it like a Wendy’s frosty? A soquid. What is the breaking point to where it sends the mucus to the bladder or my intestines? My bladder hurts, all the mucus is clogging up my pipes, I‘ve built up pee for a couple weeks and now I can‘t stop peeing. It could be that watermelon seed I swallowed when I was seven and now it’s starting to grow. All these years it needed enough dirt to grow a root system. Twenty-one years of bits of dirt that I didn’t see when I ate my fruits, meats, vegetables and mud-pies. My brother warned (tortured) me about this and now its pinching my bladder.
It could be that female reproductive tract that I put in incase I needed it and that insemination of my own seed that I got a couple of weeks ago. Damn, it is that. I really shouldn’t have done that. It’s like getting a bad tattoo. I kind of like it, but I’d be better off without it. That was the result of a bad weekend. That mad scientist/doctor in Brazil was very persuasive. I was too drink to realize how shady he was. At least he didn’t cut my penis off. I’m just missing a taint. I should probably get an abortion because it would suck to get tea bagged first thing before you even enter this world. I could definitely use the maternity leave though. I'd have to get Arnold Schwarzenegger to be my pregnancy coach. I wouldn’t mind being the fat house wife. I could get good at nagging my girlfriend and pressure her into getting married. After I pop out the baby we could have our periods at the same time. She can go in and buy my tampons now. I’ll get to jab a crucifix in my vagina in a possessed satanic rage like all woman do to kick start their periods… or is it the period that drives them to that? I always get that confused.

Know the Po-po

2008-08-31T02:06:00.000-06:00

I was pulled over by the cops tonight and when I noticed his lights were flashing behind me I said, “Oh no the po-po!” And then I thought how did that word slip into my vocabulary? I didn’t pull over immediately because he was inconveniencing me and when he opened his door I crept slowly like I couldn’t find my break so he had to walk further. He knocked on my window while I pretended to figure out how to open my window. When he signaled for me to get out I amazingly figured it out. “License and proof of insurance… and put on your pants will ya?” I handed him both as I said, “Here you go sir. Hey! Are those blue blockers? Those are good sunglasses for night driving.” He walked back to his car as rude as can be. I chugged the rest of my beer because it is against the law to have an open container. The cop wasn’t in his car for more than thirty seconds when he walked back to my window. “This is not your car insurance card. This is a health insurance card and you‘re not Norman Chikalowitz.” I grabbed my car insurance card and handed it to him and said, “You asked for proof of insurance.”
He said, “If only I could give you a ticket for being a smart ass,” and then stomped back to his car. Now if got a ticket for that I would frame it and put it above my mantelpiece. I got lucky because he came back a minute later and said, “I’ve gotta go,” and he threw my drivers license, my real proof of insurance and Norman’s health insurance card in my window.
To be honest with you I had no idea why he pulled me over. It was probably because I wasn’t driving a mini-van or an SUV and my car was built just before the 1990’s. I say 1990’s because if I say the 90’s then you could totally think I was possibly driving a car with a steam powered engine and I was cha-chugging around and that is why I was pulled over (for driving too slow). No I drive a crappy 1980’s car that probably coughed too much black smoke into the cops window.