Monday, January 25, 2010

I Want to Lemon You

I'm done with the humans. They decided I was a heretic and through me out of the house. I'm writing this on a stone slab I will dictate to my secretary later.

I'm watching the NFL draft and the first thing that comes to mind is SLAVE TRADE. Seriously, it's a bunch of dudes being sold and traded in front of our eyes. Sure, they make more money and get more pussy than I'll ever see in every single life Karma may give me, but where's the human dignity?

How do you all feel about Subway? I'm thinking, "Yeah, it's good." But, think of all the time it takes to wait for your sandwich.

This is fun. I'll be up and down as the day progresses. Well, until I'm too drunk to drive my car home. I'm on three beers at this point. They're light beers, so maybe I can take a good six. But, it's hard to tell, I've been drinking a lot of Nyquil today.



Rolling Rolling Bowling

Burkas V. Miniskirts

Anyone who reads this page on a regular basis will realize I rarely live by the ideals I write about. I've tried my best to explain this away with the idea that it is the devil that best knows evil and how to combat it. But, let's be honest: I'm just full of shit.

With that said...

The burka hysteria that swept the United States during the first months of the war in Afghanistan is all but a fading memory. But, it came to me last night in an ugly dream that I will now recount.

I'm a soldier in Afghanistan and I'm firing rounds into a crowd of children when Nell Carter appears on my left and is stark naked.

"Aren't you dead?" I gasp.

Her girth is hanging down to her knees and I thank the lord that her vagina is hidden by her belly. Her breasts look like bags of ground beef.

She says "No more burkas – look at my womanhood!"

I throw a grenade at her and it bounces off her stomach and hits me in the chest.

The dream ends with me staring at the grenade on the ground attempting to kick it away, but it goes off.

So, I woke up thinking about how much I would love to eat Taco Bell.

After that thought, I started thinking back to the time when Americans everywhere were self righteously bashing the Taliban for covering their women in rolled up Afghan rugs.

Meanwhile, if you walk into a mall anywhere in America you will see 12-year-old girls wearing daisy dukes exposing bare camel toes that resemble the roots of teeth. Further, their tits are either about to fall out or so obvious behind the few atoms that are holding them into the tank top that their wearing that you would think you were walking into an Africa's bizzaro National Geographic shoot.

Again, my penis applauds nudity of all types, but whatever is left of my spiritual fiber says that this is as bad as the burkas.

Is it wrong to teach young women that their bodies are so full of potential debauchery that we should roll them in carpet and keep them out of the sun?

Is it wrong to teach those same women that their bodies are fucktoys and are the only measure of their human wealth?

You want to know what those latter turn out to be? Paris Hilton is an example. You're only worth in life is your genitals and face. Beyond that, tell me if anyone would pay Paris to speak at a college? Take care of a child? So forth, so on.

Now, again, this is coming from a guy who just spanked it to a Sears catalogue and has been trying to find God in a bottle of Bud.

Yes, I too was sold down the river long ago for the quick fixes of sex and drugs. Do they work? Sure, for as long as they last – but, you can't walk around all day jerking your meat and drinking.

Leave that to congressmen.

So, if you want to see the two extremes of moral and spiritual bankruptcy, look to the Taliban and an American mall.

I'm sure there's societies out there that have sort of a happy medium, but mine is not one.

And, no I'm not prudish enough to think nakedness has anything to do with morals. But, our idea of a naked body is always sex. There's few people that can look on it as just beauty.

Maybe we'll get over that.

Maybe not.

And I'm only using burkas and miniskirts as a small snapshot. This bleeds into drugs, 150-dollar sneakers, Super Sized fries, go on and on.

Materialism is one of the largest cancers on this nation and it's funny to think that these evangelical-backed companies, like Coors and Walmart are the people at the forefront of this selling of souls.

Every Big Mac we eat, every "screw everything you see" song, and every "blow everything away" movie we take in we're coming closer to the void that lays in wait for the doomed.

Over consume, under educate, and fuck your way into the void.

It's worked for me.


Netflix Still Blows

Re: FTC Ref. No. 6014417

Dear Robert Eckert:

This is in response to your recent complaint. The Federal Trade Commission acts in the public interest to prevent unfair and deceptive practices in the marketplace. Letters such as yours help us monitor activities and identify problem areas.

The Commission does not resolve individual complaints. However, the information you have provided concerning the practices of the company will be considered to determine what, if any, action should be taken by the Federal Trade Commission in the public interest.

Again, thank you for bringing your experience to our attention.

Sincerely yours,

Consumer Response Center

Neutrino Demolition

I've Been Taking Nyquil in the Mornings

Help! Help! There's a frog in this drainage sewer! We have to help him! Does anyone have a cell phone! He's still alive. Oh, thank God. Thank God. K, you call 911 and me and you 'ull lift this grate. Good God, I'm glad you happened to be walking buy. OK, little fella, we're gonna help you out. K, yeah, just lift NOW! K, bring it down. All right, I'm gonna fish him out. You wait for the ambulance. K, there, there – GOTCHA! Oh, bless us all. You had me so worried. We'll nurse you back to help, don't worry. Yes, I called the ambulance! Well, she did, but I found the frog. Yeah, he was down there for at least fifteen minutes – maybe longer. This has been a miracle. Just a frog? Just a frog?! What the hell!? You BASTARD! You low down, dirty BASTARD!

This is my story. My story of just how fragile life is. I want you all to know that it coulda been you. You could have been a frog trapped in a sewer.

Some may call me a hero. But, I was no hero. I was only doing what any other man would've done when confronted with a trapped frog.

I wake up some nights and think about just what would have happened if I weren't there.

Weren' help.

Share my story with the world. For, maybe if we all saved a frog trapped in a sewer, maybe we would learn to sewers.

Good night, and God Bless.



Keep Smilin'

Keep Smiling

If you want to know where you are in the world, just listen for sirens. The louder the sirens, the poorer you are.

Don't fret if you're poor, there's always something down the road. I've heard the poorer you are the better your sex life is. That's why the world is overpopulated with the poor.

The rich may seem happy, and they are. Don't let the rich fool you. They'd come in the dead of night and gang rape the homeless if they weren't.

Get a job. The one's where you're not required to sign out every time you take a piss are preferable. Get a job. The one's where you can write this very sentence while being paid around 2 bucks for it are what you want to look for.

Get a coworker. A coworker is here to help you. Even when you wake up hating the world for your hangover and they keep asking you about where some report is printed. Get a coworker and test their faith in you by setting your desk on fire and telling them that they did it.

You will need a car to get to work. If you cannot afford a car, a bus will be provided. On the bus you'll meet things you've always wanted to be and things you hope you won't become. During office hours, the downtown busses are free, because we feel it's important that you are concentrated in one city block when we decide to tear it all down.

Terrorism is rampant. Remember that. Right now there are nine terrorists in your home. Three of them are TVs, two are computers, and four of them have been terrorizing your family with alcoholism, rape, theft, and eating the chocolate third of the Neapolitan ice cream.

Make a grocery list. You really need to eat. If you don't eat you'll die or free India. If you free India, make sure you settle who owns Kashmir before you write up a constitution. Make a grocery list. Some things to include on your grocery list are:


Respect for one's self and others

An open mind

Love for everyone, even when they kick your door down in the middle of the night and demand ego satisfaction

Anger, for the fake and the lies

Once you've decided on a good grocery list, watch as your tastes change and you decide to pare it down to:

Enough lies to get me through the day.

Use your lies wisely. Maybe one to the boss, then another to a loved one, then twelve to yourself – always put yourself first.

Own a gun. Learn how to use it. Because, when you really need to escape the horror that is this world you're going to need it to ram down your throat at three in the morning with Ron Popeil selling you a knife and an empty bottle of cheap booze beside you and a lit cigarette burning up your couch and a smile on your soon-to-be-blown-off-face.

You've bought a computer. We're happy for you. Use it to learn about the world around you. Now that you're in purgatory, you'll need something to do.

Pornography and alcohol are always a good way to kill the time it's going to take Jesus to get off his ass and save you. So, get some beer and google "huge knockers."

Start your own website and write about how your day went. Find out that someone found your website by googling "huge knockers."

Give it all up when you find "Tina Turner's hobbies and interests" was used to find your website.

Where's your gun now?

It's important that you find a life partner. That way, when you need to blame yourself for something, you have a mate. They've picked you! That means they're responsible for your troubles as they voluntarily picked you – you just happened to be born you.

Decide that your life partner is no longer responsible for your actions and decide that masturbation is not that bad.

Lock the door of your apartment and watch tons of TV and get fat. You've only got forty or so more years left.

Find Jesus. Ask Jesus to forgive you for God putting you on this Earth and you acting the way God made you to act.

Walk out of purgatory and smile for the rest of your life – you've been saved!

Now that you're all happy and everything is right in your world you can start a family. Pick another partner, this time make sure it's one that has no interest in you. You don't want to repeat mistakes of the past, because this time children are involved.

Have children. Name them names. Give them a home. Feed them. Keep smiling.

If you have to be told not to eat your young, you shouldn't have left purgatory in the first place.

Keep smiling.

Invest in your family's future.

Explain to your spouse that you don't need to love each other. You just need to trust Christ and keep smiling.

Grow old. Keep smiling.

We'll find you face down in a pile of coupons with a smile on your face and where you might have not moved mountains – you kept on smiling!

Shots Fired - Shots Out

Long Weekend

It's nice to have that rock star feeling that someone thinks you're dead.

I'd make a joke about being metaphorically dead, but I've done that throughout this blog for six months now.

But, I've just done it again.


Moving right along...I took a long weekend.

The reasons?

Well, it started with the release of the new Nine Inch Nails album. And for all of you in cyberville – go buy it. I've read your blogs and you are all mentally unsound enough to enjoy it to the fullest. In fact, I'll go as far as saying listening to Nine Inch Nails is the equivalent of scraping your wrist with a kitchen knife during some crying jag.

Crying jag is one of my favorite expressions.

Back to our story: So, I took Tuesday off so that I could stay out until midnight on Monday and buy the album with a couple of friends.

Well, Tuesday is not enough, especially when you figure there's that stupid Monday in between the weekend and my day off.

So, I took Monday off.

But, it doesn't stop there.

Last Monday I came in, looked around, realized what I would have to do for the rest of the week during the hours of nine and five and figured: why not take Thursday and Friday off?

I'm really surprised this didn't continue onward until I quit.

So, I had six days to walk the Earth.


I spent the day trying to figure out ways to get enough cash to get drunk enough to forget that I'm utterly broke. This meant that I spent five hours staring at the TV. It's really a shame when you get paid at nine the next day and keep thinking about time machines. Eventually I sold some CDs so that I could afford beer, cigs, dinner, and gas. Later, I went to Klive's new house. He bought a townhouse – 3 floors, 1700 square feet. It's in Magnolia. It's nice. He's the type of successful lad that has all the cool stuff the finance banker in movies about Wall Street lives in. Hell, he's lived on Wall Street – Wall Street, Seattle. All his furniture is from Hong Kong, where he used to live on assignment for his bank. Basically, Klive is the antithesis of me: sitting on his couch in sandals, a shirt, and shorts drinking a Budweiser I sold a Velvet Underground CD to buy. Later, I found a drive-thru Starbucks that will limit my only exercise of walking to Seattle Center for coffee to nothing.


This is taking awhile to remember. I'm sure booze was involved...oh, yes, this began the epic I will call "The Cooler." See, I had this huge chunk of ice in the freezer – beginning to get interested yet? Months ago I had a party and someone brought ice. The ice melted in my sink. For some reason I figured I would be able to use it at some time. I don't know why I thought this. So, I put the melted ice back in the freezer. Well, it became a bag of ice, shaped like the sagging bag. Point is: it was useless as anything but a cooling device. Cubes could not be made; I broke a knife trying. So, this chunk sat in limbo for three months, until I bought 165 dollars in groceries (I had olive oil and garlic salt to my name before getting paid) and I needed the extra space in the freezer. So, I took the ice chunk out and put it in a cooler. I then threw some beers in the cooler. I then dubbed it the "Travel Cooler." My idea was – wherever I go, I'll have a cooler of beer in my car. Now, the cooler itself looks like luggage, its even got wheels and a pull out lugger thing for rolling it to and fro. So, I pack the puppy up and head to Scott's to see how his girlfriend is doing after having her wisdom teeth yanked. I guess it must've looked weird rolling a virtual suitcase full of beer up to his doorstep at 2 in the afternoon. I got Shanna some ice cream and a magazine, had a couple with Scott, then left to meet Josh and Monica for beers at Cucina Cucina, then at Applebees. You can't smoke in Applebees, and this angered me. The rest of the evening I throttled some kittens in my anger.


Woke up to the foul stench of cooler water spilled all over my car. Went to the Triple Door for my brother-in-law's birthday. The Triple Door is really nice. It's like a small theater with dining-seating. The music, however, made me envy Helen Keller. The first act was the retarded man's Dave Matthews and he pulled the following boners: Muttered "shit" when he screwed up one of his trite lines in one of his shitty songs, yelled angrily at members of the audience he thought were heckling him. The next act was better, but if it wasn't for the lead singer trying to hump her guitar I don't think I would have been all that entertained. This was another of the countless establishments I'm not allowed to smoke in, but this sucked worse cuz I had to get a pass to go outside for every smoke. Also, the wait staff was so metrosexual that they all looked like androids. Later, we went to Rock Bottom for a beer: Rock Bottom has the shittiest beer on the planet. I hate Rock Bottom. But, only to confuse my hatred, you can smoke in there. After that it was off to Cha Cha's (or something). I continued drinking, acted obnoxious and...yeah, you know how it goes. I kept making up things that I had heard about people. Like, for instance, I'd go up to someone and say "Hey, how's the new house?" Even though they had no new house. This was funny until I got this woman with a hit or miss sense of humor who looked annoyed when I kept asking about her new red car. "Hey, red – that's like fire! Ow!"


Had dinner at my dad's. Well, I drank beer at my dad's. Surprisingly enough he didn't annoy the hell out of me and I had a good time.


More money problems that are too annoying to describe. Met my sister for a beer at the Virginia Inn during the day, then greeted Weisberg at five for what would be a night of thorough boozage. We began drinking at my apartment, then met Erin over at the Great Nabob. There, I talked to Palani who had arranged for us to listen to the new album at the bar. We left and went back to my apartment and drank out on the communal deck. After that, we went to Jabu's (the bar that sounds like an ethnic slur) and we were lucky enough to have walked in on Bingo night. We played Blackout and left. Erin departed and Weisberg was becoming a douche with his lack of gusto for drinking more. We went back to the Great Nabob and found out that Palani had ditched for whatever lame-ass reasons. Here we switched to Vodka and Red Bull to wake us up. After that it's a blur. Scott showed up around 11. I bought the new album. The disc wouldn't play in the bar's CD player. Scott talked with some chick about the cosmetic business (he's not gay, he's a health and beauty buyer – wait, maybe he's gay). I gave some girl my number, she immediately handed me her phone. Some dude answers and I realize that she had called the number I had given her to check on my sincerity. I didn't mean to give her a wrong number, I just transposed a couple of digits cuz I was drunk. Um...something about pool....Scott suggested we go to Hurricane and I distinctly remember not knowing what Hurricane is, even though it's a tradition to got to the Hurricane for omelets. Um...Scott or I were rude to the waitress at Hurricane...Scott ended up floating me 30 bucks, when I tried to pay him back he said I should keep the money. I then got pissed off that he wouldn't take the money. I then formed a theory that everyone was talking behind my back about how much of a leach I am. We took off, got a cab. The cab driver tried to rip us off by driving the wrong way (or maybe not – we were drunk and had no clue what was going on) we bitched at the cab driver. I remember being surprised that he didn't kick us out. We got home, listened to the album, ate take-out omelet. Scott kept talking about how if we had eaten at the restaurant we would have got unlimited hash browns. This made me angry for some reason. Weisberg passed out. I wrote "I love Dick" all over his face with magic marker. I passed out at 4.


Horribly hungover. Horribly, horribly hungover. Later, I went to my sister's, after that I listened to the new album and was awaken from my music trance to the knock of a cop at my door. "Sir, we got a complaint about the music. Just turn the bass down."


I closed the door and thanked God that I wasn't smoking dope or something.

Well, I'm doing this.



That Keith Thing Again

Fun with Reunion Sites

Dark Angel Strikes Again

Posted by
Class of 1992

To Everyone I have to tell you all...I LOVE to BBQ!!! I am thinking of having a monthly one for those that know me. I will start having them in late April and one a month after that. I will let you all know at least 2 weeks ahead of time so hopefully those of you who are out of state might try to come to one...hint hint...Jason and Angie Rutledge!!!
I will let you all know many of you would be interested in this???? Email me or post it here.

( 1 ) Re: BBQ time is coming up soon. Posted:
Posted by
Class of 1994

In Reply To (0)
You are clinically insane.

( 0 ) WHERE IS EVERYONE!!!!???!!!!!! Posted: 4/4/2004
Posted by
Class of 1992

To Everyone What are you all up to??? I can`t be the only one posting messages when there are HUNDREDS of us on this alumni site!!!! C`mon y`all!!! POST POST POST!!!!!!!

In Reply To (0)

Edgar Allen Cheeseburger

Living Unhealthy Makes me Strong, Powerful Man

"If McDonald's wanted to improve the public's health, in addition to providing the salads and bottled water, it could stop using partially hydrogenated oils in its fries, which contain trans fats and are a powerful promoter of heart disease."

-- Michael Jacobson, Center for Science in the Public Interest

Michael – for every syllable in that word I'm going to eat four Big Macs.
Heart disease – another myth. Sure, people die from it, but they also die from Bungee (spl?) jumping and cliff diving all while drinking Mountain Dew. I'm sure Michael would like to blame "doing the Dew" on the deaths of douche bags everywhere wearing "NO FEAR" t-shirts and listening to Blink-182.
For every extreme sport I witness, I'm going to drink 24 beers – that's extreme. Well, not for me. Let's list all the junk I ingested yesterday:

Venti Coffee
Hot Dog
Small Coffee
A Basket of French Fries...sorry, freedom fries (yeah, right...Viva La France!)
5 Beers
Two Bowls of Nachos
Some Pringles
A Slice of Cheesecake

Guess what? My heart hasn't exploded.
Fucking diets – strictly for the birds.
Speaking of which, have you seen what birds and other forms of non-talking nature eat? Fucking bloated carcasses of animals that have been living off the refuse of degenerates like me.
All that shit I ingested yesterday – it's now in a rat's stomach, in a sewar, and will soon be in a pelican, pigeon, or another rat stomach.
Are the birds being subjected to countless "exercise or die" commercials.
Am I fat? Sure, but not too fat. No, I can still wear a 36, so it's not like I'm Louie Andersoning my ass around the work place, bowling alley, DV8.
Sure, I'm not slim enough to get laid on a daily basis, but what is getting laid – more exercise. Unless you do the spoon position, where you just gently rock back and forth.
The spoon position rawks – smoke afterward.
Smoking? I've already railed against the bullshit of "second-hand smoke," so let's attack the attitude that smoking kills smokers. Sure. Who cares. Humans aren't suppose to live past 40. It's in the bible. And who would want to? Have you looked at the elderly lately? Do they look like they're having fun? Walking there wrinkled, Dawn of the Dead asses around with the assistance of metal tables they stutter around salad bars in nursing homes hoping to get the last muffin that is brutally moldy and hoping like hell that some shit kid visits them and cringes in terror at their liver spotted face that they have lived healthy for 80 years to create?
No, I prefer to die at 40...ish.
There's no reason to live past that age, as I see it. Might as well drink and drug your way through life and die a stunning heart attack in front of your young children, showing them that this is not a place of mirth and taffy – no, they too will pass into the unknown, clutching a beer can, throwing a lit smoke across the room and yelling "YOU BITCH!" at their wife as they've just found out that she's been fucking the help and is taking their singing-all-the-live-long-day children with her to her liver-spotted, ninety-year-old mother's place in the hopes of splitting up her last moldy muffin.
Hell, I didn't think I'd be able to tie that one up either.
God, I'm gonna have another hot dog and pepsi today.
Tonight? I'm thinking eggs and hashbrowns. I'll even throw in some toast to piss in the face of anyone who doesn't eat "carbs."
As a kid, I would be told that I should eat my food, because some people have to live off bread and water alone. I always thought of the starving Ethiopians as bread and water people. Now, come to find out, bread is fucking bad for you? It's a.....CARB? Fuck that, bread can't make you fat. You think really fat people just eat shit loads of Wonder? Should we pray for an American potato famine?
Shit, quit wussing all over your bodies. Back in the forties full figure women were the shit, and hell, fat guys can always get laid – look at most of my married friends.
We need to change the ideology of fat being bad. Train our children to toss off to fatchick-fetish porn. Force feed them Claim Jumpers meals.
We should do this now.
Humans are survivors. You are biologically programmed to be fat. Face it. Models, actors, and rock stars are fucking abnormal. They are hippies and should be shot. We are programmed to be fat in order to survive whatever the next Holocaust may be. When the great American potato famine comes dust bowling through the Midwest and we go tits up in Grapes of Wrath fashion, it will be my fat ass eating Naomi Campbell wings in delicious Bullseye BBQ sauce. The fat are survivors and the thin are degenerates that need to be processed (bones and all) into the patties of Big Macs so that my fat brothers and sisters and myself may continue to propagate our fat species across the universe and into the hearts and minds of our alien overlords which live in great nursing homes in the Horseshoe Nebula far, far away.
Living healthy is a sin. A lot of people say Jesus was black. Well, they're probably right, and you know what I think – he was fat. And you know what Jesus promoted – eating bread. You do it every Sunday, oh Christians, at church. And then, you wash it down with alcohol.
J.C. always comes in handy when I'm proving a point. But, what of the Buddha? Now there's a deity that hasn't missed a meal. And you know what? He was so happy in embracing pain and not wanting that he achieved Nirvana, took them on the road and made millions.
So, if you're on a diet – good for you. I'll be around to eat you when the next meteor nails the Earth and there's no more cow flesh and cheese for me to consume on a white bun with mayo.


P.S. Bush is a fucking toolshed of such magnitude that he can consume large galaxies.

For a good time call:


Blogger 101 Thing That All the Cool Kids are Doing

1. I wish I had more moles

2. I first had sex with a tambourine when I was 12

3. I still have the tambourine

4. I once ate a nail

5. I've never eaten cat

6. I wish I liked rap music more

7. This is so fucking stupid

8. Yoda is actually a penis with facial features

9. The first time I ate sausage was when I was five

10. I wish I didn't have to stare at broccoli in order to maintain an erection

11. I would have made an awesome air fighter

12. I have this stuff on my head called hair

13. I've quoted Ronald McDonald at a dinner party

14. I believe that everyone has the right to own a dead goat

15. I bet you could make a Star Wars figure with the right magic marker, paper, glue, and imagination

16. I made my first Star Wars figure when I was 53

17. I'm 56 years old

18. My balls hang down to my ankles

19. My hair is "conked" even though I'm white

20. I had sex with this one girl once

21. The first time I rode a bike was when I was 97

22. I'm now 98 years old

23. You see I have this condition

24. Where I age really fast

25. I'm, like, 342 right now

26. My penis is 67 inches long

27. And that's flaccid

28. I wish it were Christmas everyday

29. Except on Halloween day

30. Cuz, then you wouldn't get to dress up all rad like Batman and bag snatch from 7-year-olds

31. This one year

32. The year 1934

33. I bag snatched from this old lady in Safeway

34. It wasn't even Halloween

35. She had a butt load of pop tarts

36. Score!

37. I wish I had a pop tart right now

38. I'm 789 years of age right now

39. You're reading this blog right now

40. I have the gift of knowing your every move

41. Except the moves you make when you're not reading this blog

42. I can't spell Rumpelstilskin

43. 2 plus 2 is 4

44. My favorite color is potato

45. I knew this dude who had this awesome skateboard with a skull on it

46. I think his name was Donald Rumsfeldt

47. I shot my first stuffed animal when I was 700 years old

48. It was like two minutes ago

49. I'm on 49

50. That makes 50

51. My favorite band is the Partridge Family

52. Wait, I lied

53. My favorite band is New Edition

54. K, I'll level with you – I don't have a favorite band

55. I hate music

56. And children

57. But, not in that order

58. There are billions of people out there I will never be able to know and love

59. Or sodomize

60. I think life would be different for me if I were a tree

61. I have cancer of the shoe

62. I have been diagnosed with evil disorder

63. My favorite food is purple

64. I have three kids

65. Five if that will get me laid

66. I'm just joking

67. I don't have children

68. But, I am 893 years of age

69. I'm not lying

70. Wanna make a bet?

71. I used to think I was Teddy Roosevelt's mule in another life

72. I met Chuck E. Cheese when I was 6

73. I've been to Dallas

74. I lie about the size of my penis

75. My penis is now 567 feet long

76. This is the only thing women care about

77. They only love me for my 645-foot penis

78. I'm 3945 years old now

79. I met a time traveler once who told me that the world will end in the year 1985

80. I said "Man, that only gives us 3 years to live."

81. He just looked at me, shook his head and gave me the extra ketchup I asked for

82. That was in the year 1945

89. I have trouble with numbers

84. I used to be able to change from a black guy into a white guy

85. Then the machine broke and I was stuck white

86. This embarrassed my family

87. My dad is a civil engineer for Tonka

88. My mom is a professional panhandler

89. My mom and dad are like a million years old

90. I wish I was 28 again

91. Done

92. I'm 28

93. You can get high off onion rings if you eat enough

94. You need to have a lot of onion rings around, though

95. Like, maybe, 80

96. Dude, I'm almost to 101

97. Just 98 more to go

98. I'm so excited

99. I hope this pisses someone off

100. Pleace,

101. Matt

Daddy Said So

Thoughts of the Monkey

Christ! How long do I have to masturbate before these people stop gawking at me? You'd think they're actually into this or something. I'm not even turned on, I just want them to leave so I can throw shit at the other monkeys in peace. OK, I give up. I'm gonna go in the corner with my back turned and pick my nose. Oh, wait – nevemind, Gerry is already over there slapping the wooly mammoth. Crap. Is there anything to eat in here that isn't covered in fecal matter? Ah, a banana. Great. Like, I need another fucking banana. I hate bananas now. I used to love them, but ever since I've been in this zoo, that's all they feed you. I could use a burger or something. Back in Thailand, I could always hang out in front of McDonalds and get some fries or burgers from stupid American tourists. Now, I'm in their zoo and all they'll feed me is the shit they took me away from. Didn't they notice that I grew out of the bananas and wanted their American food? But, no, I get bananas and monkeychow here. Lord, monkeychow: it's got all the snouts and entrails that a hot dog does, but actually tastes like snouts and entrails. I should attack the next zookeeper that comes in here. Maybe they'll load me full of drugs. Now that would be SCHWEET! I remember when they caught me and brought me here: I clawed some bitch on the arm and they hit me with elephant tranquilizer, a.k.a. PCP. Man, that was loads of fun. I had this awesome hallucination that I was one of the monkeys in the beginning of 2001. Watch this, I'm gonna blow a wad of shit at this stupid kid. Ha, ha, isn't it cool? I'm a monkey, kay, I'll point back at you and viola! Ah, ha ha, you should see the look on this kid's face. Oh, here it comes: the parent trying to explain to the kid how monkeys don't know any better. Dumb bitch. Of course I know better, but your shit son has his mug up in my monkey glass. I'm gonna go get my monkey basher and beat Clarence over the head with it for awhile just to disturb this kid. Clarence! Get your muffin-stealing ass over here, pronto! How do you like them apples, Clarence? Fucking Clarence, every Friday we get a bucket of muffins to eat and that prick is all grabby, I nearly let it go, but now that kid has me riled up. Ah, and just what I wanted: the zookeeper. Shit bomb on it's way. OOOHHHHH! Nailed her right in the face. How do you like them apples, zookeeper. And here comes the gun and................oooooohhhhhhhhh.....funk-a-delic.....i'm coming monolith, I'm coming......

More Monkey:

Levi Was Caught Last Night

Is Anyone in Iraq Left?

Like most of you, I check out the news headlines each morning to make sure Delaware is still a state.

I'll scan the headlines, looking for news of Delaware and they pretty much read like this:

30 Killed in Iraq

Princess Diana's Zombie Eats Baby

Jay-Z: I Have Found Christ

Nine Dead at Sonics Game

Bush Touts "Kill Homeless" Plan

Blair Wins Election Amidst the Fact He is an American

The next day:

23 Killed in Iraq

Nell Carter's Zombie Eats Princess Diana's Zombie

Some Beautiful Barbie-Like Girl Missing

Jay Z: Christ Ain't About Nothing

Ted Williams: Closet Homosexual?

Bush Touts "Moral Values" at McDonalds, Best Buy

The next day:

54 Killed in Iraq

Nell Carter's Zombie: Drugs Made Me Do It

Barbie-Like Girl Hid Among a Bunch of Ugly "Milk Carton" Kids in an Attempt to not be Found

Jay Z: Christ and Me "Cool"

Barbara Walters on Recent PCP Trip: I Ate Franks and Beans with the Rosenbergs

Bush Touts "Really Awesome Cobra Command Missiles"

And so on...

So, my question is (read title of this blog entry).

I mean, I guess I'm hyperbolic, but

Did I just use the word "hyperbolic?" How pretentious. It's probably not even a word. Wait, spellcheck, yes it's a word. Damn, I'm smart. I guess I've always been smart, I just don't always show – oh, the article. Sorry.

Anyway, at this rate everyone in Iraq won't be dead until, maybe, 2050, but still?

If thirty people died violently in Seattle everyday, I think we'd begin to worry about going out for milk and wonder what we're paying law enforcement to do.

And, I've just noticed that I haven't really noticed. I mean, you see the headline everyday, but it's like road kill. Sure, it's there, but it's not like you knew that possum.

I guess another question is did Saddam kill thirty people every day? If not, we kinda fucked up that country.

But, in the long run..we'll see in 2050.

But, support the troops, because at this rate you'll be one of them within your lifetime.

We're spread thin and we're thinning. And if you think you'll avoid the draft by age or sex – think again. They aren't strapped for troops as much as they are strapped for professionals.

So, if you're working a Help Desk in Amarillo, you may be working dispatch in Fallujah within a couple of years.

Never picked up a gun? No worries, as long as you can install Windows onto a PC, welcome to Iraq.

The proposed age cutoff I've read is no longer 28. It's 38. And if you have a vagina, they'll still nab you from your home under the authority of the Selective Services.

Run to Canada? They won't take you because of a treaty signed with Bush long before the war began. Makes you wonder about how long W. knew he was gonna be a war-time president.

Oh, well.

I know what I'm doing if I get a letter from the government

(the other day, I opened it and read it and it said they were SUCKERS! They wanted me for their army or whatever, picture me giving a damn I said never.)

I'm running to Mexico. I'm going to pose as one of those drunk Texan border vigilantes and I'm going to give the first Mexican I see all my papers and tell him to enjoy the US.

Then I'm going to order a Corona.




I'm Selling my Body

Hey there, young woman. Yes, you!
I'm selling my body!
That's right, don't look so surprised. Let me tell you a little about what you'll be buying before we jump right in.
With my body, you get a bargain, you get more than what you're looking for. Think I'm wrong? Let me explain.
My body is a lot like a movie: it's a love story filled with science fiction and horror. How many bodies can repulse a woman like this, let me lift my shirt.
See? I saw that look on your face – genuine fear.
But, let me explain further, I don't want to give away the ending.
Hell, let me give away the ending: my ass. That's right, my ass. Have you ever seen heaping mounds of cottage cheese hanging in cheese cloth?
Whoa, you need a towel?
Well, I have one right here. Only, it's not a towel, it's more of a diaper. See, here's a little bit more about what you'll receive with my body: the dysfunctions of my body.
See the mucus around my nostrils, all dried up? That's staying there, babe. You see I have this condition – but, I don't want to bore you with the details. Also, notice how there's a constant store of saliva on either side of my mouth? That's staying as well baby, it seems I can't talk without generating the stuff.
Oh, brother!

You might be asking yourself "but, what about the love story?"
Well, let me tell you a little bit about how my body will love you.
Have you ever been on the Tea Cups at Disneyland? Imagine that, but with body lice.
I'm also quite attune to the workings of my body and will shower you with bodily fluids whether it turns you on or not. Judging by that blast of food and juice from your mouth, I'm thinking not. But, that's the way it works baby, you have to take the good with the bad and my chronic flatulence, coupled with my penchant for explosive diarrhea, really makes for a wet, wild ride.
You should try it.
In fact, you must. I'm going for cheap today. It's a special. You get one night of my body for only driving me to the clinic to get a shot and some money so that I can get that shot.
Oh, that's right, my body has this virus as well. It's starts with "gone" and ends with "ria."
How are you on body hair? I seem to have this condition that leaves me bald in all the wrong places and hairy on the others. See, look at my lips: hair.
What can you expect on the way of dinner? Well, by all means, take a look under my belly and you'll find a banquet of things I've ate in the last week. You like nachos? I like nachos.
Whoa, honey, calm down. I guess you'll have quite an appetite tonight.
So, what'll it be, babe? Shall we dance? Grab a hold of my chunky reigns, you're in store for quite a ride.

Brand New Legal Paper and Other Stories

Sober: Beer Money?

Hysteria after a sleepless night; I was sober.

There's something unkind and ungodly about the fact that the first night in a year and a half that I spent sober was also the first night in a year and a half that I couldn't sleep.

What does that teach me?

With no money, I planned a day of checking all bases until somehow money would drop in one of my coffers.

I had a technical communications conference to attend and there's no way I could make three days of it with no sleep and no drugs.

I found solace in the following:

· There was a chance one of my credit cards was holding back on me for suspiciously drawing $22.00 from an omelet house.

· If this one check were to clear, I'm free to try another.

· Sell CDs.

It ended up ugly; I sold Bowie, Daft Punk, DJ Shadow, and the Very Best of Michael Bolton for a 12-pack of Bud and two packs of Marbs.

But, oh brothers and sisters, it was worth it; I'm drunk.

The Most Yarmulkes in Seattle

Like I said, I was attending a conference.

It was the yearly gathering of technical communicators (read: nerds and three hot chicks that have been blowing the boss) from around the world.

So, Seattle was brimming with the every type of nerd of the world.

Moving right along, Seattle is not known for its Jewish population.

As a Jew, I was surprised to see something in Seattle I haven't seen in....since Thanksgiving in Chicago – yarmulkes!

These are amazingly small hats created, economically, to heat only the most wasteful portion of the head.

Oh, and for religious reasons we won't go into here.

I felt like I was a part of a pilgrimage to my homeland, with my fellow brothers.

Only this pilgrimage was to a conference center and some woman in a neon jumpsuit would speak the good word.

We carried PowerPoint as our tablets, we walked the escalators like mountains, we stomped the technical terra like – OK, I'm not really Jewish, but I did fantasize that I was.

Anyway, the point is – yarmulkes are hard to spell.

Free Bag and Umbrella

It's true.

I got a free travel bag to carry all my technical communicator shit and an umbrella.

I guess they give the umbrella out because everybody thinks it rains in Seattle all the time.

Oh, plus it was raining.

I have no need for umbrellas. When you live in Seattle, it's like wearing Kevlar in Iraq – you're still going to get hit.

Yes, rain kills. Just ask Noah.

It's a little known fact that Noah lived in Seattle and Mt. Ararat is really Mt. Rainier.

Look it up if you don't believe me.

Anyway, I have a free umbrella and you don't.

Ugly Jacket

The main speaker for the conference was wearing an ugly jacket.

It was neon blue with neon pink and red zigzags on it.

It looked like someone had puked 1986 on her.

My associate and I both agreed Big Red must have been envious.

So, to sum up topic4: this one chick was wearing a really ugly jacket.


Actually, I'm joking. That's Laura Bush's personal website.

Slade Gorton

When your name is Slade is there anything else in this world that you can do besides not take shit from mo-fos?

Yes, ex-Senator Slade Gorton accepted the "Best Technical Document" award on behalf of the authors of the 9/11 Commission's report.

When you think about 9/11, that's like King James getting the "Best Period Use" award for the Bible.

Anyway, he was a class act and left in 30 seconds flat.


I just wanted to write his name again.


And again.

My boss showed up late. She's a Republican and called him "Slicky Slade."

Then she said something about him being a Democrat. I corrected her – he's a Republican – and she looked puzzled, like she wanted to take the comment back. I think Republicans think all Democrats are slick.

This is probably because Republicans are inbred children-eaters.

It's true.

Finished Magazine

After the introduction by Slade and the Magic Marker, I reclused myself to a bench to read a New Yorker I hadn't opened since 2004. After three minutes, I realized I was on the last page.

So much for killing time.

Arrest and Heart Attack

During the first three hours of the conference there was one arrest and one heart attack outside the convention center.

Who says technical writers don't live fulfilling lives?

Free Lunch



Hash browns w/green onions, bacon, and cheddar

Sourdough wedges


And it was delicious.

HotChick Sit in the Way

This beautiful woman from Michigan sat next to me.

She even offered me extra syllabi.

Then this other woman sat between us.

Like I would've had the courage anyway...

Sleeping Guy Dropping Papers

Every other slide on the projector this guy would nod off and all the papers in his hand would slip down onto the ground.

I think he was a necrophilia...err, narcoleptic – what's the diff?

Diagramming Sentences Makes an Ass out of You and Me

It's true.

Buy my Shit!

In the diagramming class, the teacher made sure that we bought JOSEPH MOUTOUX'S book with every breath.

JOSEPH MOUTOUX had been diagramming sentences since Abe Lincoln was clean-shaven and if you don't watch out he'll diagram your life.

ORDER NOW! $12.50 (USD).

Comment Lady


It's a seminar – you know what I'm talkin' bout.

Plus, I'm too drunk now to care.

Thank you, David Bowie.

The Fight of Your Life Begins and Ends with Fucking Modifiers

For years, millennia, people have been fighting over modifiers.

This battle reached its apex in my seminar with this one lady and the teacher.

Seriously, arguing with a teacher is like ordering your genitals to orgasm.



The Girls Call Me Ugly

I Refuse to Write About Football Anymore

Dad, the world is getting darker now. I can feel it more and more . . . The girls call me ugly and they bother me the most.


Yes, David might have had something there. The world is getting darker, and damnit if I don't know for sure whether the girls are at least thinking I'm ugly.
But, women are women and I understand that the world would be an uglier place if I were to be judged gorgeous.
But, that's neither here nor there, when we're deliberately trying to avoid writing about a football team that’s record grows darker and darker like the sick twisted mind of a mongrel who talked to dogs and shot the innocent.
Could our team go the way of Berkowitz?
No, of course not, that's nonsense.
Or is it?
I would have to say that on a beautiful day, such as yesterday, when the Space Needle stuck out like a sore thumb in the blue skies of a peaceful March day it was hard to believe the violence that hid behind a team such as ours.
Was it just me or did "guy with the orange hair" seem to be taunting Troy and Shannon into a Berkowitz-dream world in which only the clench of a finger on the trigger and the hollow sound of a 9 mm smacking into orange hair quench their thirst for revenge?
The mind of a serial killer isn't far from the mind of a pro. A pro knows that they are a pro and the ego smacks with the spirit of an avenging angel when that ego comes into question. In the violent game of football, everyone can be a serial killer.
But, Matt, football is an all-American sport with Hank Williams and tail gate parties; how can you say such things?
Well, I might remind you that O.J. was a pro, and that Nixon was a huge fan of the game, as well as a ego-shot player. But, that's piece work and it doesn't accomplish the image in its fullness.
No, football in all its glory is a war between the super egos of a team system. And when one of those egos is stomped, that ego must crush its foe in order to avoid the piranha-like consequences the team will unfurl upon the stomped.
Therefore, as I saw us losing another great battle at the hands of lesser-men, the flame was fueled and my mind took a spin into the Berkowitz darkness, like when ecstasy hits you like a punch in the gut, taking you down to your knees, trying to puke tacos on Scott's lawn...but, that's another story and everyone knows drugs are for kids.
In my maddening dementia (on the sidelines) I became acutely aware that I was slowly fashioning an explosive with my lighter and a pez dispenser.
Good God! I exclaimed. I felt like Alec Guinness in the Bridge Over the River Kwai.
I had become so absorbed in my ego, and its stomping that I was slowly creating an incendiary device in which to hurl at the orange- hair dude.
But, Jesus has always been a friend of mine and stopped my hand before I could commit the act that would have degraded into a spiral leaving everyone (barring the hot chick in the cut- off shirt) on that team dead or dying at my brutal and insane hands.
Jesus loves the weak, and only a boozer like myself knows this first hand.
But, what of the strong?
Troy and Shannon couldn't possibly know Jesus. Of course not, that would be ridiculous. The strong willed, far from Satan's teet, have no reason to meet the great J.C.
No, Hey-Soos keeps them in the peripheral, like the brainiacs in your first grade. No harm will come to them for they are strong and will never fall stray from the hand of Christ our Lord.
Yes, it takes a drug-addled degenerate like myself to incur the company of Christ. For the world would run amok in apocalyptic disorder if I were to be in the great peripheral, and therefore, missed.
So, when I came upon Troy and Shannon in the parking lot, it was with no surprise that I saw them pulling a wood chipper from the Parks Department truck with the maddening look of Condoleeza Rice defending a President who spent the entire month of August 01 on vacation.......
It took the full force of myself, Scott, and Weisberg to disarm the crew of two and read them Chicken Soup for the Soul for three grueling hours before the situation corrected itself.
So, when it comes to football, there's two things you can be assured of: the Vipers will always lose, and Matt is a sick degenerate who keeps Jesus around, not unlike the great Johnny Cash.
So, with that, I must admit that I have lied. I did write about football, and I am ashamed. But, I did not recount the score, plays, or general shittiness of our team.
That would be blasphemous.

Keep up the good work, and NEVER call a fat man who talks to dogs ugly.
Your love in God,
Matthew Holden Eckert

I Wish I Was Asian

Guess You Could Call it a Weekend

I'm slowly curbing my drinking to just weekends. This has been a lot of fun.

Ha ha hiiiiiiasdhgh;dhgkfds;hg;dhsag;dshl

So, when Friday rolled around I found myself anticipated a night of drinking.

When it came, I realized it wasn't much more fun than the sober night from before.

Have I found something here? Maybe booze and drugs aren't the maniac ride that I thought would bring me closer to God?

Most definitely.

But, I'll still drink on weekends; even if it ends up I'm puking Hooter's fries and 911 strips into my toilet bowl.

We started off modest, at the piece of shit, non-smoking chain restaurant, Red Robin.

Ross (token black guy), Chris (token retarded guy), and Scott (token Catholic guy) began drinking around 4. After 45 minutes of shitty service (bartender was too busy spinning glasses and checking the receipt paper stock to serve us) we left.

Ross and Chris took off to pick up their sons from wherever and Scott and I went to the Joker for more boredom.

At the Joker we drank.

That's it. Nothing happened whatsoever, and this is coming from a guy who found a way to write three paragraphs about a bag of ice.

Scott's girlfriend showed up from some business trip and Scott left and I took off for Hooters.

Ross was over there with his son and I told him I'd meet up with him.

But, first I stopped off at home.

To my surprise, this credit card company sent me a credit card I signed up for in some fit of desperation.

I now had a grand in my pocket.

I walked down to Hooters.

I thought of calling up a limo, considering I had 1000 dollars in my pocket that I'm too stupid to realize comes with so many chains and shackles that it should have been sent with some prison food.

At Hooters I found Ross drunk. I was drunk as well, so this worked out nicely.

The night progressed and Ross and I got drunker.

When Ross gets drunk he likes to proclaim that every white chick in the place only likes brothers.

I encourage this, as there's no reason to believe the women working in Hooters even like men.

The amount of fake-itude in their delivery of flirts is so unbelievable they remind me of the last woman who told me "You know, I don't usually do this."

So, the night progressed and Ross was dead positive that this waitress that looked freaked out to even serve him had the hots for him.

"Dude, watch, I'm gonna ask her out and she's gonna say yes." I've never seen a man so sure about a woman. I even started to believe in him.

She comes up and before he orders another beer and is right about to plunge into whatever gibberish pickup line he had in mind, she cuts him off.

And not just verbally.

No more booze for Ross.

I quickly made a save and told the woman I was driving. She seemed OK by this, considering she wasn't present for my first eight beers.

I paid for the meal with my newfound riches (that I will be paying for for the next 10 to 12 years) and Ross gave me a ride home.

Once home I decided it was imperative to go blow more cash.

At Tower I purchased P.I.L., Autolux, Nails, Smiths, Primal Scream, LCD Soundsystem and a porno.

Oh, and I threw in some incense.

122 $ (USD).


I decided it was imperative that I max out my new credit card within the weekend.

I didn't make it.

You see credit card companies will decline your card if it's used as if it was just stolen from someone.

And that's just what I was doing.

The following day I blew another 125 on more CDs: Killing Joke, Saul Williams, PIL, Buzzcocks, Brainac, Gary Numan, TV on the Radio, and Cat Power.

I then bought my buddy Rob a 90-dollar wedding gift from Williams Sonoma.

Then, I went to buy a couple packs of cigarettes.


I had 574 left! What the hell?

I was determined to be in debt for another grand and this credit card company was making it hard for me.

So, I called them up and found out that reckless spending is against their lending policies.


This left me fucked cuz I was going to take Rob and his new wife for dinner.

Luckily, I had some "cash" on another card to pay for it. It's also lucky that his wife was sick and couldn't make it.

At Peso's I got a burrito the size of Italy and Rob and I pointlessly talked about our parents being drunks and what a scum ball George Bush is.

Rob is a recovering Republican.

Sunday I went to dinner at my Mom's and left pissed.

My Mom gets pissed off at my cousin (mentally disabled, living with my Mom) and it ruins the evening.

My cousin is pretty much a 47-year-old with the mentality of a first grader. Everyone understands this, but I'm sure it gets annoying just like raising a first grader.

So, my Brewster's Millions plan of blowing a grand was foiled once again.



Some More Old News

700 for 4

In case you've missed it, upwards of 700 Iraqis have been killed in the last month in retaliation for four American security guards being torched and dragged through the streets in Iraq.
The question here is, and was on 9/11, are we avenging the spectacle or the amount of lives lost?
Four missionaries were killed last month by Iraqi insurgents; how come there wasn't a 700 body bag payback? Could it be that because the missionaries were killed in a more "decent" manner (gunshots), rather than being ripped apart by heathens?
Are we so attuned to the spectacle of death that we avenge with more fervor when murder is played out more brutally than when it is done cheap, without care, and in the manner of taking lives within the swoop of a sub-machine gun?
How many West Africans have lost their lives due to civil war in the past five years? Would it be more than the 3000 lost on 9/11? I bet it would, and yet, because this mass murder is taking place so slowly, and gradually, and without the horrific sight of two ziggerauts falling into a city there is no public outcry that responds with Al Pacino and Robert Deniro answering phones for a telethon.
Sadly, we are tuned to attribute menace to the more shocking of crimes, when the ones that go on and on quietly and with less passion are forgotten.
Which is worse: the man who kills out of duty or the man who kills because he believes it's his duty?
Both men are guilty, and I would even go as far as saying the man who killed out of a belief or an ideal has more moral leverage than the man who killed because he was told to do so.
Why are body counts judged by the manner in which they occurred rather than the actual loss of human beings?
Is it fair to exact a toll of 700 to 4 because their side decided to drag our dead through the streets?
If we continue to react with brute force for spectacular crimes, rather than take aims at preventing the belief that only spectacularly gruesome or spectacularly awesome crimes will get our attention we will continue to stoke the flames of the medieval and Die Hard-esque crimes.
Rather than attack, America needs to comprimise and quit writing opposing ideologues off as nuts. As the sole Super Power left from the Cold War, we (whether we like it or not) have become the grandest hope of any world government that is to work. And if we are not listening to the people of our fledgling global democracy, even if it rails against that very democracy, then we are to continue this cycle of terrorism and retribution.


For Women: Interesting Facts About that Stuff that Some Dude Just Blew on Your Face (IN LAYMAN'S TERMS)

You can have fraternal twins with two different fathers. That's right. Let's say you screw your black husband, and then cheat on him with some Asian dude. Your ovaries decide they're producing two eggs this month and your husband's sperm fertilizes one, and your lover fertilizes the other. Come the birthdays, you're husband will be scratching his head wondering why he now has a full Asian son.

Only around 10% of sperm are made to impregnate you. It's true. The others are blockers or warriors. It's like Alien. The blockers will jam your cervical canals in order to stop some other dude's sperm from getting in; these are the bastards with up to four heads on them. The warriors are even more interesting. They hunt other sperm from other guys. They'll bop heads and "smell" the DNA package atop a fertilizer's head to make sure it's one of its own. If it's not, it will bop it's head hard enough to release a cocktail of sperm poison into the enemy's head, thus killing it.

10% of the world population's fathers are not their biological fathers. That's right, this 10% are sired from some dude their mother cheated on their father with. So, if your father molests you, make sure you get a DNA test before you call it incest.

Sperm live in your body for five days. So, you're fucking some dude and you decide halfway into it you don't like him. You tell yourself you're getting rid of him as soon as fucking possible. Well, he's going to be around (inside you) for five days whether you like it or not. This is all the more reason to give head on a first date.

Your pussy will only hold so much spunk. It's true. But, what's even weirder is that your boyfriend will only blow so much spunk; in fact, only enough spunk to fill you up. So, you're doing your boyfriend for the first time and he blows 500 million sperm into you. Well, you get a wild hair and do it again a half hour later. Your body has rejected a good portion of the sperm in flow back, but it can fit another 300 million. He'll only fill you up that 300 million and so on. His body is biologically programmed to only blow what is needed to keep you jam-packed with his minions.

Women ejaculate flowback. Try it. Go into the bathroom the next time a dude has filled you up. Stand over the bathtub, spread your lips apart and let it go. It will come out like a gusher.

So, now that you know a few choice details about the wonderful world of cum, go get yourself laid.



Jeremy Has Spoken


Sometimes, in the morning, it would rain as we ate breakfast. I would look out the window and think about each rain drop and how long it had taken to come from the Gulf to my breakfast table.
Each rain drop seemed to symbolize how isolated I was from the rest of the world.
After breakfast on those days, I would walk the compound and let the rain fall on my head and think about them as enemy bullets beating my brains into my spinal cord as I felt them, like blood, venture down my body and I would cry...I would know?
It doesn't rain often in the dessert, so that is where I would go to relax; out of the way of the palace and its confines. I would breath easier out there.
It would just be me and the thorazine. I would shoot up and go running out into the horizon screaming out old Bee Gee songs and scratching at my chest till I bled.
I would imagine I was a Viking running onto a coastal shore and I would make love to the sand as I writhed in withdrawals.
Back at home, I would say nothing about my travels. Father was very....uh....see no evil when it came to me. So, when I would come in twitching and shaking, bleeding from the chest down he would tell me that I was "a fine soldier" and move on to his daily duties.
When it would rain at night, I would imagine the rain as shrapnel coming from a mosque that had exploded near by. I would run out into the yard and praise Allah for showering me with the bits and pieces of his temple and the worshippers inside.
I would then return to my room and masturbate to Archie comics. I was young, very young at the time and I would paint myself in Technicolor and pretend I was Archie banging Veronca over the lion statues in the courtyard.
Then I'd play Zaxon and fall asleep....under the rain drops.

That has been another edition of Uday Hussein on....
Join us next week for more yucks and laughs!

For further reading on the history of Iraq:

An Unfortunate Post

Sexual Abuse is a Rite of Passage for Celebrities

So, Ellen Degeneres has announced that her stepfather sexually abused her when she was a teen.

I guess the lesbian thing wore thin.

What does this mean? This means Ellen is an "adult" celebrity now.

That's right, if you want to be welcomed into the world of celebrity adults you need to fire walk with the best of them. And the best of them were sexually abused.

So, if your dad cornholed you at the age of 14, you may be celebrity material. In fact, if you ever want to apply for a SAG card, you'll probably have to admit that you might have been abused at some point in time, but you don't recall at this point.

Mark the "yes" box under "May have repressed sexual abuse memories."

Look, if you're going to make it in this business you're going to need to know how it feels to have someone violate you anally, and that person is probably going to be someone you trust; probably your manager. And if you're a child star, there's a good chance your manager is your mom or dad; so, it works out well.

Never been sexually abused? Don't fret, there's another option: severe addiction.

As much as I worship the man, Trent Reznor just pulled this one when he went from interview to interview telling everyone how he's freed himself from the bondage of cocaine and alcohol and is now all grown up and ready to say something meaningful.


Now, if you've read the above you might wonder how successful you would be if you abused drugs and were molested and beaten as a child?

Go to your record store and buy the album Thriller. You'll be the billionth person to do so. And you know who wrote that album? And do you know anything about his past?

But, then again, he self-destructed and is now nine tenths of the way to prison, so maybe the abuse AND the painkillers are just too much celebrity baggage to form a long-lasting star.

But, you're well on your way.

Don't have a drug or a cornholed memory?

Well, you can start using drugs anytime. They're out there.

Hint: go to where poor people live.

Need a good cornhole memory? Make one up. Look, sexual abuse is usually (according to Dr. Phil and other retarded buzzards) repressed. That means, you can wake up one day and decide that someone sexually abused you.

No problem there.

Now, you're almost there. You have your back-story and your addiction. Now, it's just a couple of acting classes and you're there.

You'll probably have to blow Harvey Weinstein on the way, but no big deal.

So, you're wiping Harvey from your lips and you've just scored a cameo in the new Nicholas Cage piece of shit.

You're thinking: I'm almost to the top.

Well, you have a couple of other duties on your way.

First, you have to pretend that celebrity embarrasses you and give off that romantic Kurt Cobain vibe of "I do not want this."

When interviewed, make sure you're loaded enough so that as you're thinking about the bees eating your ears the audience will think you're deep.

You're going to also need a pet cause. Go environmental. This way you won't have to deal with the homeless people that make you want to retch every time you pass them on the street. Hug a tree and all's good.

Next up: you've got your own movie. You're the star, it's a killer script, you only have nine lines to try to pull off some stab at acting, oh, and you're Keanu Reeves.

Now, you're on top.

It's time for the Downward Spiral.

You're now realizing that life is empty at the top when there's only drugs and sex as a ladder. You look down and see a wasteland of genitals and needles and you think you're above it.

But, then you look up and there's nothing but excrement and maggots.

You're fucked.

Let the addiction and the painful memories, that aren't even your own, take over and fall into an Axl Rose spiral of Ruffles, whiskey, and fried chicken.

Stay this way for five years and then re-emerge with your heartbreaking story of pain, loss, and redemption.

With any luck they'll make a movie about you. It may or may not be called Ray, The Doors, or Nixon.

Celebrities are bags of offal.



Daddy Didn't Give Attention

I'm actually connected to the internet while drunk.

This is something of a first.

Now I can tell you all everything I really know, without spellcheck or grammar.

I've seen things you can't imagine.

Like this party where everyone was drinking champagne and beating homeless people to death. I think it was called Chuck E. Cheese's.

Oh, God, for out thou when we find a monitor the size of your strength and power we will erect web viruses to download every keystroke you have made.

And I wish I was/were/is you.

You are so beautiful in the infinite light of a Denny's left on late, after dark.

And so beautiful in your vengeful ways; when I shot a load on my laptop and you descended down in the form of an ice pick and stabbed me about the head and neck.

I love you, oh God, my God. My palace in the sky. My winter in the abyss. My salvation for times left amiss. Dear Sally, take this one from me - I forgive you for fucking the help. It wasn't your fault. It turned me on.

Oh, won't someone turn me on? There's no turnon in this abyss. Can you see why we're all pissed. But i regress. I love you Sally, you are my God.

I just possesed a loan of so much money that I keep thinking I might become homeless out of boredom. And I hate the sky. Send the sky down in intervals, don't let me catch it watching me again. It's up there, on high, so high; I wish I were high.

I'm high in this guy's front lawn, puking my brains out and thinking about how I have finally found something tangible in this lifetime.

And I wish I was Robocop. Oh, how I wish I was Robocop.



Brrrrrrzzzzzzzzzzz. Do you feel me? Do you hear me? There's no transmission like the absurd.

The absurd will save the world. Give it time. We'll elect world leaders using a bag of macaroni and nuts. Trust me.

This guy's got a gun to my head and he keeps telling me to move on. It's not like I want to. But, there's this gun hanging onto my head and I can't get rid of it.

I order fast food and I keep moaning "faster" into the intercom and balls and nuts and wreches and dead atrophied cows keep coming out of the speaker instead of words and I feel that I'm on some sort of edge of the universe.





We find ourselves surrounded by the aboriginals again and we're not sure if we should ask for forgiveness or rape????

Surround yourself with a crow.

Oh, I know? She said in a Valley Girl accent and we beat back the bow.

Like ships sailing on the grave of shit books.

Oh, here we go, we're going again, this will be a mad dash, i can feel i can

Dead presidents all aside, we will survive. send the sea shells to the autumn bells we're on a roll. give guns like onions. onion salad. you will survive all of this in your chemical blankets of prozac, valium, and alcohol. and i wish i could see you over the trees, but the trees are too tall. said dead friend on the vacant lot. send missiles into continents made of BLACK gold. God, i love an irony. sending wigets, midgets, reruns of gidget.

oh, coming is divine, but what's better than a come? kingdom? nah, nah, feel the flakes skin off our back we're baptized in silverware.

/001./111we're at a dinner table with mamma and pappa and we realize they're both shittier than we thought. we wake up and wipe sweat from our brows and thank god that


God thank Lucille Ball for the advent of the



does it matter?

Let's play a game. You and me. Let's close our eyes and see.

See stars and staircases that climb into the infinite.

Let's pretend we're there and not here.

Let's pretend I hold you and you hold me.

Let's pretend that this is


Let's pretend this is





This One Time Keith Pissed Off This One Chick

WHERE IS EVERYONE!!!!???!!!!!!

You might want to review the Terms Of Service again, Steve, before posting rude comments. I don`t appreciate anyone saying anything negative about my mother who is currently fighting for her life with cancer. Thanks for the great post. You really know how to make someone happy.

I`m Afraid some of the memebers of my graduating class may be used to the more volitile informality of other message boards. At least that is my asumption from what I have seen so far here *laughs* I am a memeber of a few myself, a parenting message board and a role play message board. I know how these things go.

It wasn`t too big of a deal until Matt used my name to create an account and said some things under that name and created a very cruel profile on it. I wonder if he is aware that I could press charges as what he did was a federal offense? It was impersonation. And the FCC can easily be notified.
I was in shock that someone would do that. I have never done anything to any of them, yet they keep attacking things I say. I feel bad that they have nothing better to do than act like they are still in school and bully people.
I don`t even like to post much now....but thought I would respond.

DAMN A very good friend of mine works for the FBI, in hacker investigations and from what he has told me you should keep track of that kinda thing for evidence in case you need to press charges, better to have it before you decide then have to gather it after.

*S* I can understand your frustration, I have a few people worming around the HTML chat circles using my aliases and it rather bugs me, since a few friends of mine were tricked by them and thought I was being a brat (I am a brat but these people were bigger brats then I am usualy) There are loads of hack programs that allow people to steal personal information that allow for such impersonations (these people used whispered information to pull it off, things I told only the people being tricked). Protect yourself now, before it becomes an issue and when it does, you have the hammer posed and ready to lower.


Granny Wants Bacon

Baby? Baby?

Baby, you there? I could really use some bacon.

Ya see, I’ve been hankering bacon for awhile now and your granny could really use some?

Are those the coveralls your granddaddy bought you?

Oh, my, you’re really becoming a man.

Say, could you be a dear and put some bacon in for me for supper?

Nine strips should do.

Oh, deary, I’ve gone and lost my glasses. Honey, could you find my spectacles and then make me some bacon?

Oh, well now, you’ve got me thinking. Could you go ahead and make some toast, tomato, and mayonnaise to put around that bacon.

Back in the day we used to call that a BLT.

Oh, baby, you’ve grown so much.

Sure, it’s in the fridge, next to the pickles.

Oh, I love bacon. The doctors tell me that it’s bad for me, but I don’t mind them doctors. Baby, make me some bacon.

Your mother always had an awful time with that stove, too. You have to turn all the burners on, then off, then turn around and say a Hail Mary and then turn them back on and it’ll work.

Give it time.

Oh, I can’t wait to have some bacon.

Baby, did I ever tell you that we used to grow bacon?

It’s a stone fact! In fact, we used to have bacon-growing-Sundays where we’d plant bacon in the backyard and watch it grow.

Back then, if you had any size of a yard, you’d be growin’ bacon. Boy, I loved growing bacon. Your mother and I would have a time of it.

Yeah, that tomato has always been moldy. Just cut off the side of it and serve me the innards.

Anyway, so we’d plant bacon and watch it grow. Bacon has a gestation period of nine minutes.

So, once you’ve planted it, you just watch as it curls up out of the garden and then you pick it around noon.

Oh, boy, I miss those days.

And I miss your mother.

Is she back from Thompson’s yet?

Oh, she is?

Then why isn’t she helping you make me bacon?

Oh, baby, I understand, she’s got things to do.

Oh, thank you baby.

Could you hand me the pepper.

Oh, this is the best sandwich I’ve ever seen.

Well, besides that one I made with JFK and MLK.

OH, dear me. I’m sorry. I never told you about that?

War Bad, Peace Good


War Bad, Peace Good

By, Angie Bergman

I think war is bad. Peace is definitely a better proposition when you think about it. No more people exploding and shooting at each other – wouldn't that be great? You bet it would! I also think that people should stop swearing and cussing and such, it's just not very good. Like, today, I went to the market and there were these two kids on bikes in front of the doors and the one of them says to the other "Hey, you BLEEP, you wanna catch a movie?"
What kinda potty talk is that? Maybe if people cleaned up the language a bit, there'd be peace on this great Earth.
Another reason war is bad is that it takes my Hubby away from me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I support our troops and our President, but I sure would rather have my Hubby, Ken, back from Iraq. Every time I see a news report about people in Iraq and all the deaths, I nearly lose my mind. But, I still support our President and our troops, especially my husband. I guess I wish that Saddam would just tell us where those naughty WMDs are so that we can leave and have one of our diplomats run that place for those folks over there.
I hear a lot of people bad mouthing our President for sending our troops over there and starting a war, but there is NO WAY that a Christian would start a war without a good reason. So, to all you anti-war nogoodniks out there, I have this to say: I have a two-year-old son and his daddy is over there fighting for your freedom – so, there! If you think you have a better idea than fighting that evil Saddam, I'd like to hear it.
So, in conclusion, war is bad and peace is good. But, you have to support your President and your Hubby! :)

War Kicks Fucking Ass

By, Aarron Hagness

Dude, fucking war is fucking awesome. Have you watched the news today? Fuck, they totally blew a prison up with mortars! Now if that isn't some bad-ass great escape shit, I don't know what is. Fuckin' A, I don't even need to rent movies anymore, I've got Al Jazeers, C-SPAN, CNN, the whole bit. I fucking love this shit. Don't get me wrong, I know there's motherfuckers dying over there, right, but, hell people die all the time. My grandma died a month ago, but you know what? She didn't die bad-ass like this one Iraqi I saw who got his whole mug ripped off when a jeep got totally blown up. FUCK, I love this war. I mean, peace would be cool in the way that you could go to Iraq and maybe bang some Iraqi chick because maybe you wear love beads or something...but, nah, that probably wouldn't happen. I know this hippie dude, Chris Sherman, he's all into that hippie shit: smoking dope, burning incense and all that shit and that fucker never gets laid. Probably cuz he's also a fat ass. Fucking a lot of hippies turn into fat asses cuz a' all that pot and shit. Anyway, so, I just saw this one G.I. getting carted away from some Fa-lu-jallah or something conflict, he was all bandaged up and shit – just like in Platoon. Fucking, this war rocks. I hope they show more coverage though, I've mostly been staring at the remains of that prison and I'm like playing "Where's Waldo" with trying to see any blood on the walls or street. None yet, but Oh well. Fuck it. If this goes on, I'm totally popping in Die Hard. Fucking war is awesome.

Please Take Your Boot Off of My Neck

By, Hussein Kazi

One thing I know about you Americans, is that you are a kind and gentle people and that you only go to war when you have to. With that said, is there anyway you could take your boot off my neck? I understand that it's your job to keep the peace over here, but really, I was only trying to bootleg this gasoline so I could feed my family. It's not like I'm some mafia guy, I'm just a guy who could really use a pita or two to feed a family of five. If you would be so kind as to remove your boot from my neck, I would gladly give you this gasoline and never do it again. I totally understand your situation, but even if you have to arrest me, you could handcuff me or something. We've been having this relationship (your boot, my neck) for over a half-hour now and my neck is really hurting me. Not only that, but my back is all twisted and my leg hurts. So, if you wouldn't mind, please remove your boot from my neck. Thanks!

Hey, Bud, I Would Totally Take my Boot Off of Your Neck if the Last Guy Who I Removed my Boot from Didn't Shoot me in the Arm

By, Pt. Neil Armstrong
Location Withheld

Hey, buddy, I totally see where you're coming from. I'm black, and I've had many cops put there boot on the necks of friends and family, and I sympathize – utterly. But, you see, I was in this situation (my boot/Iraqi neck) before and I took my boot off of the guy's neck and he turned around and shot me in the arm, see? So, where I abhor brutality in any form, I also have a thing for my arm not being shot. Not only that, but having my face shot off or anything else on my body shot. So, for the time being, I'm going to keep my boot on your neck until backup arrives and I can properly process you. Sorry.

Dead Cat

I Wanna Kill Your Cat

(This is my brand new punk song lyrics, enjoy)

I wanna kill your cat

I wanna trash your head

With my bat

I wanna break open a garbage can on your head

Yours truly,

You’re fucking dead

Kill your cat

But down, deep inside

I want to bury my head

In your guacamole

I wanna lick out your lies

And make handle bars out of your thighs

Kill your Cat!



Kill your Cat!

In your bathroom sink!

Pretty kitty

So very pretty underneath the pink



Fuck Oy!

Damn kitty cat

Itsty Cat




Kill your cat!



Go down and get a





Uh, yeah


Oh, baby once I get you home

I’m gonna make you a cat

Oh your dead cat!

Your dead cat!


Enzyte Day One

Enzyte Day One: My Dick is Still Small

"Size DOES matter"
- Blonde in my junk email

Drinking is a funny thing; it's even funnier when you have a credit card...
I'm, by no means, a normal person. If anything, I'm slightly deranged. This isn't a boast - I'm not "wacky" crazy like Gallagher, I'm really fucked-up in the head.
With that in mind, there were two instances in which I became deranged with a credit card and a stomach full of hops that will make no sense to anyone; but, may shed light on why I continue to kill myself with smokes, booze, and pharmaceuticals.
I guess it comes from one-part boredom and one-part utter loneliness.
Whether I'm funny or not is definitely up for debate, and I'm sure we'll all chime in on the chatter box to state the latter. But, it is a means in which I entertain myself when I'm bored.
I'm sure most of you have seen me pan handle out in the streets of Seattle, offer gum to random strangers, interview people on the street for a fictitious newspaper, etc....
General hijinx.
Well, one night I found myself bored; but, this time I was alone. I guess you could call this comedic masturbation, but I phoned an infomercial number and actually ordered the product.
In this instance, it was that book about ways to make money from the government. I have yet to open it; but, I did purchase it.
Now, the whole act of ordering the 45-dollar book was just hilarious (to me) – call it performance art. I couldn't stop laughing afterwards, and where it wasn't worth 45 dollars – it was fucking hilarious: just the idea of being drunk and ordering something so stupid.
Yes, I'm deranged...anyway, the way I made it even more fun was I put on the accent of a drunk, elderly, Southern-American.
Below is the transcript (2001) as much as I remember:

Operator: Hello, thank you for calling ????, how can I help you?
Me: I'd like to order the money makin' book.
Operator: Excuse me?
Me: The book that that one geeky fella with the haircut is tryin to sell.
Operator: Oh, the ?????
Me: Yeah, that's the one, how much for that BOOK!
Operator: Let me see, that would be......?????
Me: Well, that's great, cuz I could use it – I figure the government owes me a lot of money – at least as far as I reckon.
Operator: Sure, sir. So, you would like to order the book?
Me: Yeah, put me down for the BOOK!
Operator: OK, could I get your credit card number?
Me: Sure, (loud burp) that'd be ______
Operator: Back to the rest of Matt's article.

And so on. I don't really remember much of the phone call, except that I sounded like Foghorn Leghorn and that I burped loudly at one point in time.

Months ago, I found myself drunk once again, on the couch, and bored. I'm sure everyone has seen the Enzyte commercial with the guy with the big grin promising a bigger, stiffer dong.
Well, not only that, but it's free – well, there's shipping and such, but basically it's free.
Now, every ex I have can verify that I (of course) wouldn't need such pills and that three inches satisfies most women...but, this wasn't about my dong – no, this was about being drunk on a couch and having no one but an operator to make an ass of myself in front of.
Also, I used a MasterCard that was maxed out.
Therefore, in no way am I ashamed about the Eor (eeee-yore) (spl?) tail that is nailed to my pelvis and I really didn't want the crap.
With that in mind, I donned the Foghorn Leghorn accent I used before.

Operator: Bristol Meyers and associates, how can I help you?
Me: Yeah, I want some of those pills that make your pecker grow!
Operator: Excuse me, sir?
Me: The pills on the TV ad, with the guy smiling and all...cuz his pecker's all big now.
Operator: I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to give me the proper name of the product in order to process your order.
Me: Goddamnit! The...what's it.....? The ENZINE!
Operator: Are you referring to Enzyte?
Me: Yes, goddamn! The Enzyte! I want summa that Enzyte – make my pecker grow!
Operator: OK, sir. How did you hear about the product?
Me: It's that liberal show, with the Jew....John's Show...or the Daily Funnies....GODDAMNIT! It's on that Comedy Centrals network.
Operator: Alright, sir, and have you ever used Enzyte before?
Me: No, I haven't, but the TV commercial says it'll give me a bigger wang and I need that. My wang's wee and tiny and my wife passed away recently and I need confidence if I'm about to go looking for love.
Operator: Alright, sir, could I have your credit card number?

And with that, I burped and ordered the Enzyte – knowing my card was maxed out.
Well, that was two months ago and last night I got a bottle of the stuff.

.....of course I popped one - why not, it won't hurt......

People just don't understand my humor....especially when it causes me personal embarrassment and 6.95 in shipping and handling...


Cleaning the Soup


Currently, my company is being audited in the wake of the new Sarbanes-Oxley laws. These laws were created in the wake of Enron to ensure that corporations aren't baking their books.

So, basically, I have to start writing some sort of documentation on this shit.

I'd rather eat my own hat, but since I'm not wearing a hat, let's go ahead and take a look at a memo I just received.

There is the opportunity for confusion that can arise during a Section 404 audit, based upon the differing vocabularies of inexperienced audit team members and those of technologists. To help mitigate....

It goes on to explain that you should use a list of Terms in place of the type that might be misunderstood (read: land the company in hot water).

Here's the list.


Management makes ongoing determinations of business risk and documents these decisions where the level of risk could impact operations or the financials.

Don't use:

Well, yeah, they asked me to look at the financials and all that shit, but I decided to eat this sandwich. Fuck, this is a good sandwich. They melt the cheese and put peppercinis on it and...what did you want again?


While an initial pass might see this as a gap, a more thorough understanding of our operations can identify a series of compensating controls that reach the same end.

Don't use:

Whoa, we really fucked this one up. Good lord!


Management has deemed this level of documentation to meet our control objectives while not impacting the efficiency of our operations.

Don't use:

The last time we documented anything it was when we were explaining our way out of the fact that we expensed some hookers in Omaha.


Management is working to build upon our current and already acceptable control environment.

Don't use:

We talked about doing that, but then I decided to go buy this sandwich and then forgot about it. Now, I think I'm going to surf the net for porn and hope that someone puts it together for you folks. Man, honey mustard has got to be the best idea since dijonaise.


We have a series of detective controls in place that accompany our preventive controls.

Don't use:

I have no clue how to stop an employee from funneling money to an overseas account.


Our controls are well designed and operating effectively.

Don't use:

This one dude I know used to have this program that, get this, could copy financial accounting records and download them into this...oh, shit, you're that dude from that auditing thing. Oh, I'm fucked now. Look, I'll give you the rest of this sandwich if you don't tell anyone what I just told you.


Access controls, internal controls.

Don't use:

The porno police.


We are building evidentiary materials for controls that have been in place for a period of time.

Don't use:

C'mon, man, pleeeeeeeeeeeaaase don't tell my boss that I'm the guy that told you that shit about Manny. OH FUCK, I JUST FUCKED MANNY OVER!!!


I'll need you to connect with my manager on that.

Don't use:

Shit, Manny already has two felonies. Christ, this is not happening. Hey, whatchu know about THIS?! Yeah, I'll gut you like a fish with this letter opener if you don't promise to keep your yapper shut about anny-may.


Discussing systems that impact and can map back to the financials.

Don't use:

Discussing that one chick you banged last night.


Management has determined the scope of our testing, self-audits, controls, etc.

Don't use:

Yabba Dabba Do!


Adequate levels of governance and oversight; management sign-off.

Don't use:

It's your fault! You walked into the letter opener! Oh, shit, man! Oh, shit! I just killed the accountant dude. Fuck, Freddy, we're going to Aruba.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Funniest Google I've Seen

And I've seen some messed up ones.

"What is getting laid"

Dare I say, cute?


Standard Practice

There's this poster in my cube of a dog driving a car, with the caption "Oh, great. The traffic cop is a cat."

There's something lousy and sad about this and I cannot quite put my finger on it, but I know it involves a certain type of manner that goes against every grain of my body.
More about my cube: we have a fridge that is rearranged, guarded, and cleaned by a coworker. She checks the fridge daily for anything amiss. If there are any food items in the fridge for more than two days, she'll inquire as to whose they are and whether they need to be thrown out. Also, if you place anything in the fridge, she eyes you, looking for anything suspicious or offensive that may enter the fridge. And in this way, she now, somewhat owns the fridge. That is why there is a picture of a dog driving a car on it.
Outside, there is a pond full of fish and discarded shopping carts that is the color of a dollar bill used to clean auto parts. People walk around this pond and chat. I have no patience for chatting, I don't even know what I would chat about.
The pond?
Probably, I don't care to talk about myself and the pond is the only other thing that would come to mind. I think I would comment that it looks like a dollar bill used to clean auto parts and then I would have nothing else to say.
The person I was chatting with would probably have other things to say. They would probably ask me questions about different things, but I still wouldn't chat. I would just answer the questions in one sentence murmurs.
Chatting is something I'm not good at.
Everyone in my cube is out today, except for me. They are participating in a "Methodology" class. I participated, too, for one day, then I decided I didn't want to go anymore. It was for three hours and I found that I couldn't concentrate on what the man was talking about and I debated whether I should work out that night for most of the time. So, I emailed my boss and told her that I didn't want to go anymore and she said she "appreciated my honesty."
So, I'm in the cube alone.
In seven minutes I will go have a cigarette and then I'm going to read for awhile.
I believe this is how "blogging" works: you write down things about yourself and hope that someone will find them interesting. This is my "blog."
I have never blogged before. I've posted things, but they weren't really about me in the literal sense. They were mostly jokes about things with angry/weird commentary. But, I think today I shall blog like the professional bloggers do, and I will tell you everything about my life today.
This will be the first posting, but I will continue to post throughout the day. Because of this, I will not edit these either (not that I do a good job of editing the others, but at least I give them a second look), because it will take too long.

I have been writing this for around ten minutes. So, I will do ten minute bursts.
OK, here we go: real blog.