Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Name Withheld

Minnie's and NAMEWITHHELD are Banned


I've Learned my Lesson About Music Piracy

Friday I played poker with the boys.

Yeah, right. Acquaintances.

Let me rephrase: I went to a poker party with a bunch of people I vaguely know.

Acquaintances can be fun every once in awhile, but every time I'm in one of these situations, I remember why they are acquaintances and not friends.

Basically, bottom line is, I don't share much in common with them and they aren't used to just how drunk I can become.

Friday I was really drunk.

I became annoyed first with this one guy who was drinking apple juice and eating trailmix at a goddamn poker party. I limited my hatred for his health to asking if this large phone/computer thingy he had was a tricorder.

Steve and I were the only people to get the joke.

This pissed me off even more.

Next, there was this guy who figured he was Hoyle and went around explaining how great he was at poker.

The next thing you know, I realize that everyone but Steve and I, at the party, was INTO poker.

Big time.

I've seen this before: a group of people who collectively have the attention span of Yoda and have tuned that expanse of paying attention to the awesome world that is Celebrity Poker.

I, on the other hand, have no attention span to anything involving directions.


That's one of the many reason I hate most sports: I nod off the second I hear "A first down is..."

So, I'm stuck in this game of poker that has been brilliantly choreographed to look like the World Series of Poker if it were to be played in some dude's garage.

A timer was set up to make sure the games didn't run too long. The chips came in a case that looked like it should be holding some Stiletto pistol in a Bond movie. A large "Dealer" chip was used to identify the dealer.

Wait for it......

What the? A "Dealer" chip? Did I miss something? Did we need a chip to identify the man or woman who was tossing cards at players?

Good lord.

And of course, I was the first dealer.

I think some of the guys folded if for only this fact.

The games progressed and I got steadily drunker. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't have the brain functions to even identify the cards, much less a straight flush. Yet, I was up and winning.

But, God doesn't like a loser to win, unless you're running for president, and he stopped this quickly.

According to my acquaintances and Steve, I almost won on some type of flush that I didn't even know existed.

I was now out and glad. I smoked a cigarette and played dice with a couple of the other losers.

One loser in particular, NAME WITHHELD, is no longer an acquaintance. He's been regulated to the part of my brain I call "Where I keep the thought of assholes, just in case I ever get faith in humanity."

NAMEWITHHELD was an acquaintance that I didn't like at first, but then, grew to think he was a descent dude, as long as other people weren't around for him to impress.

Most of my good friends can't stand the dude, but I've stuck up for him because he never really pissed me off.

Well, a few dice games in and I'm slurring the word "the" and having trouble figuring out what dice even are, when I mistake a rule and break it in some way that NAMEWITHHELD found retarded. Now, I'm being called Corky every other second – NAMEWITHHELD has around three jokes to his repertoire and Corky is his big gun.

So I'm putting up with this, like a champ, and not letting it bug me too badly.
I go out to take a piss and come back in to hear everyone laughing. It seems Steve asked NAMEWITHHELD what he was doing and he replied "I'm at the shit table with Eckert."

This pissed me off only because it was behind my back.

Soon, we were leaving and NAMEWITHHELD was dealing cards.

It's a well-known fact that NAMEWITHHELD got laid off and has been looking for work. In fact, I tried to get him a job at my company.

So, I see him dealing and said something to the effect of "Hey, maybe you can get a job doing that."

Not even funny, or worth a burn, but I'm not used to giving shit in anger.

As I walked out, I shot him the bird and then bitched to Steve about what a toolshed NAMEWITHHELD is.

Toolshed isn't really the word, it's more like prick: this is the guy who secretly recorded sex with some chick.


So, Steve and I go to Minnie's and I realize, for the foreverenth time, that Minnie's food tastes like shit. Minnie's is now BANNED from my list of diners.

Nothing happened after that and I went home and finished my omelet and slept.

When I woke up I started feeling guilty about giving NAMEWITHHELD a hard time, seeing as his unemployment is a sore subject.

This quickly passed and I began my day.

Later on, Scott called and reminded me that I had invited him to the hockey game I was supposed to go to with him, Shanna, Steve, and NAMEWITHHELD.

I had nothing better to do, and I figured: fuck it, I'll apologize to the guy for the job comment and go to the game.

I figured, on the one hand, he's a prick; but, on the other hand, I acted like a prick as well.

So, I went to the game.

At the game we ran into Steve and NAMEWITHHELD and I apologized. NAMEWITHHELD gave me a "no biggie, I don't even remember it" and then went into a whole new barrage of "Corky's." Then, knowing that I have this damn website thingy, I mentioned that I saw this guy Nate and NAMEWITHHELD goes "Oh, you gonna write about it?"

That comment was actually funny, but it pissed me off that the prick was going to just start in with the bullshit. Not only that, this prick asked for my help (like anyone needs help) setting up a weblog of his own.

The whole time he's doing this, Steve is giving me a look like "He's piss drunk, watch out" and trying to calm NAMEWITHHELD down.

I walked away relieved that I wasn't the one acting like a douchebag for once.

Later, at Peso's, we ran into NAMEWITHHELD again and he was just as drunk and belligerent. It hit me again: good lord, I'm glad I don't get like that anymore.

I left after a beer.

So, I learned my lesson about music piracy.

Yeah, right, but I'm sure not going to be brazen about it.

For the last month I've been scouring the web for leaks of the new Nails album. Well, one of the places I Googled was this douchebag's site where he explained that he had the link, but anyone who asked him for it was a degenerate for wanting to pirate the song.

I left a comment on his page, letting him know that he was a douchebag and I think this angered him. He went off in his comments on me, so I posted an even more smartass remark. This got no attention, until I made the mistake of putting my URL on there, so that he might post the song.

I should've known better. He hit my site the very day I posted the incredible shot of my tongue and when I looked at his site today, my ugly visage was the topic of hatred.

I never would've imagined that getting "Good God You're Ugly" comments would bother me, coming from the anonymous world of the web, especially coming from a fucking dude, especially one that seems to be versed in enough technology, file swapping, and groupiness that I'm certain he lives with his mother and is holding a managerial post at a Best Buy in Wichita.

But....dear god....i......i was hurt.

It wasn't so much the comment, but the idea that someone hated me enough to post what would be a mean comment if I was someone who took a great deal of pride in my looks.

It totally ruined my day! What the hell? It's like that comment grew me a pussy.

Oh, well.

My next lesson about piracy came in the form of a large, naked black man.

That's right.

So, today a bunch of new stuff leaked and I was able to download a good deal of it. But, I was like that puppy who sees his own reflection in a pond, goes after the bone in his...OK, you know what fucking story I mean...the puppy one.

Anyway, so I'm greedily looking for more clips to complete the set of Nails song excerpts, when I see this hyperlink to what is explained as the entire album.

Without a moment's hesitation I click the link and a large, naked black man (at work, mind you) appears on my screen. I believe he was doing someone or something from behind, but I can only guess, as the second he popped up I was clicking the exit button like a madman.

I finally got rid of the image. But, he was up long enough to say "Hey, Matt, like your job? Well, while I'm boning this chick, I just figured I'd go ahead and let you know how I feel about downloading music. You see, anyone on the Internet who is well versed in computers and has a stalker-like love for a particular musician gets pissed off when you try to download that musician's music. See, these folks think they're buddies with that musician and that if they stick up for their buddy, somewhere down the line, that musician will be a buddy of theirs. I guess these people are lonely; I don't really know. But, I do know this: I'm Coming!!!!!!!"

And, you know, for a large, naked black man boning a chick, he was a pretty nice guy.



Monday, March 29, 2010

Uday 2

Levi Presents:
Uday Hussein on.....


What was the question?
Yeah. Yeah. We were like a family in some ways.
What would I look forward to?
Uh...we had these dinners. We would have these great dinners with lamb and wine and all these people.
We'd feel so potent with our country.
Yes. Potent.
The dinners climaxed with our father's great speeches. But, it was always the same speech and for the life of me I cannot remember it.
It's like a joke now. You know, how I can't remember a speech that was said over and over again.
What was he like? Ahh.....like any father. He was forgetful; I'll remember that.
He forgot everything. You'd ask him what he had for breakfast and he wouldn't know. But, if you asked him about our plans of war he'd have them verbatim...verbatim.
Sure, my brother and I got along. Did he try to kill me? Sure. That's how it was. It's...you don't know how it is. It's different when you're part of what you call a regime.
No, he wasn't. He was never...I did things out of evil, he was more...it's funny, because he was more the humanitarian, bodies and all.
I'm more, I don't know, focused on the kill.
Frathouse? I don't understand?
Oh, yes, my bedroom. I love the ladies - especially your American girls. They're sluts you know. We may be dirty, but your women excel at the sex side of the porn trade.

This has been another edition of Uday Hussein on Life...

Sunday, March 28, 2010


Lecture by Management
(clever management)

Use of such content in the documentation will lead to the thinking, by others, that it is evident that you categorize your thought processes using a pasta strainer as a filter.
Furthermore, your written words are beneficial to no one. It is clear that you choose to need more training. Bottom line: see how your interpretation of the overall effect of your last email sent was received.
Listed below are some key points to remember:

Going the extra mile is far beyond our goals to police the out sourcing of adults listed as professionals.

It is possible somebody completed the week in response to the moment rather than to improve or do.

While we may be out of stock, we are not doing cartwheels, ecstatic with kudos in response.

Our corporate dashboard is made up of a grid of consumers: we need to push the core in order to stopping dropping these plates we spin on our fingers as we hash out the end user to further bomb our customer and dance happy at five, four and up into the evening.

If we have to add change to the list of what got us helpful, you will realize that what will suck will be the feedback we receive, stretching this thing into something that could be called important.

At the request of our new management, remember to record whole negative numbers in the program "LOU."

Geared up for the Fall quarter, remember that a call that sounds like a disclaimer is read three times and duly noted.

Ummmm.....you should know that the sales are lagging as incorporated in the track of fresh meat we are using to translate the issues in order to stay productive.

Simple navigation, encompassing vague content due to programmer suggestions of content depending on comment will produce none of one of the positive effects of the subject.

In the weeks to come, leave all case out of documents, period.

First, you guys, in form order, be friendly and leave a reminder so that we don't repeat the mistakes of long ago.

Damn it, if it's stormy and dark then you have been beyond deadline and need to think about A, B, and C.

The time received is not an option; continually be essential to our company and your documents.

Help keep our text quality.

Thick, thank, drink, and point!

Thank you

Friday, March 26, 2010


"Would you like some cancer with that?" It's nine in the morning and I'm getting tired of this.

Everyday is exactly the same and I end up in this endless TV show.

I tell the waitress, "No."

I'm in a strip club at the end of the world. I'm staring at a large, circular stage. Above the stage, dancers are crouched in cages – eight of them.

When the music starts, the dancers drop from the cages onto the dance floor and strip for my amusement.

I clap along with the music that has nothing to do with naked women.

The song sounds like it might be called "Let me give you a Squirrel" and the women are grinding on each other to the beat.

Sweat hits me in the face and the dancers begin looking nervous. A puff of smoke billows out from above the stage and the dancers are frozen in liquid nitro and become statuettes that will soon be auctioned off to Japanese businessmen.

I grow so tired of this, everyday.

Everyday is the end of the world.

A woman sits down next to me and says "I wish I sold crack for a living."

I ask her why and she replies "Why not?"

I laugh at this and she tells me that she's a bartender here.

I ask her if it makes good money and she opens her mouth, revealing a large set of fangs, and answers "I don't need money."

The thought of this woman tearing a large hole in my jugular crosses my mind, but then I remember that I'm a dignitary at the end of the world and the thought passes.

"You're a dignitary aren't you?" She asks, confirming my thoughts.

"Yes, I'm here on behalf of America."

"What's America?"

"It's a country that was once in the world, before it ended."

"Um. Was it nice?"

"Do you know any countries that are nice?"

"Don't be a smart ass." She says as a tongue flashes across her lips and I remind myself that this woman lives on people juice.

I get up and walk to the door, but before I leave I order a beer from the bar.

There's no open container law at the end of the world.

I walk outside and realize the vampire is following me and whisper "Oh, Jesus."

Jesus is standing near the door talking to a hooker, and hears this. He's in a foul mood and I understand why.

"What the fuck do you want?"

I whisper "Amen." And assume this ends the conversation.

Outside I'm reminded that there is no sun at the end of the world and light a candle to walk with.

I'm going to another bar.

The Oredorium is the bar at the very end of the world and I decide to go there.

On the edge of reality, it teeters on stilts and many a drunk has fallen into the void.

In fact, there's a sign that reads "WARNING: VOID" posted in front of the end of the world, proper.

In the bar I sit next to Santa Claus and he's bitching up a storm about some martini he didn't receive. I tell Santa "Easy, pal."

"Don't fucking easy me, pal. OK? I've been waiting here for twenty minutes for a fucking drink and the Easter Bunny is over there talking to my bitch. Now, if I want to get the courage to smack that fuck, I'm going to need that martini!"

He's drunk again.

I order another beer, tilt the rest of the one I was drinking, and then wander over to the jukebox.

I look at the tracks and can't even understand what language the songs are scribed in.

I randomly hit a button and Kurt Cobain begins babbling about his lack of a gun.

An alien taps me on the shoulder and says "I'm here to give you syphilis." I laugh at this until I realize he's holding a hypodermic needle. He's tall and has a large, orange head with midnight eyes.

I pull out my gun and shoot him in the face.

Through the smoking hole in his head I see the bartender produce another beer. I reach through the hole and grab it, before the body has a chance to drop.

Death is like a punch in the face here and not everyone who dies stays dead.

Take Jesus. He's been killed so many times that lately he's just been offing himself for sport.

"I can't die, man." I remember him telling me once. "It's like...shit! It takes all the fun out of life."

I told him "I know what you mean." Even though I didn't.

I realize Elvis is playing Gin down the bar and I sit next to him and ask him if he has a smoke.

He tells me "No." in a low voice and I realize he's losing again.

And to Richard Nixon, no less.

"How's things, Dick?" I ask Nixon.

"So, you're still the ambassador for America, right?"

I tell him "Yes."

He replies "Tell me, Axl – what's America's interest in the end of the world?"

I tell him "They're real religious these days. You're a Quaker, don't you remember religion?"

"Wasn't that all that bullshit about Jesus being the Son of God?"


"Well, there's the son of God." I follow his finger and Jesus is at a corner table drinking shots out of a Drano bottle.

Jesus raises his glass "To passion!"

Nixon looks me in the eye, winks and says "Where's your messiah now?"

I get up and Nixon grabs me by my jacket.

"What the hell, we're playing a game!" Elvis screams.

Nixon pulls me down to him and says "If you go back, tell them that aliens have been running the world since 1945."


"No. But, tell them anyway."

There are aliens, but they don't start running the world until the very end. They live a town over and John Wayne is firing at them through an open window.

Lennon and Lenin are sitting at the bar playing a game:

"You're Lenin!"

"No, you're Lennon!"

"No, you're Lenin!" and so forth.

I think they're lovers.

I have to send some sort of report back towards the beginning of the world, to around 2000 and I'm having trouble thinking of anything to report.

Would they like to know that America collapsed in 2064 and that religion was rendered obscure when Voyager came back with the meaning of life taped to its nose cone? That God is a peanut butter sandwich that acquired divinity through osmosis with his own ridiculousness and looped the Universe into a donut, only to create it billions of years in the past? That Neil Diamond is going to come back in a really, really big way?

Probably not, and that's why I'm sending the transmission.

Hell, it's my job.

I walk to the void and stare out and watch the big bang envelope the sky and realize that the Hotpocket is the only worth while man-made invention.

This confuses me; I transmit my letter, and step out into the void.


Click Me for IQ test.

Report Scores!

Thursday, March 25, 2010

What Do You Care?

Google me, oh, uh...yessss
Nine Inch Nails: With Teeth

Leaked Clips


Chris Connelly's New Album


Ministry Side Trax


Elliot Smith Blows Except for the Self-Titled Album


So, here it is: all the 30 second clips from the new nails album.

Click Me

Here's a critique, based on only 30 secs of each song, barring THTF and TLBTB (which I have in full and won't share cuz I'm a hypocritical pirate geek, just joking. personally i hate everyone who refused to share this album with people. i think they are the lowest form of geeks since KKKarl Rove):

All the Love in the World: Sounds a lot like the amazing instrumentals from Still, but with lyrics. Not sure what the song is about. 8.0

You Know What you Are: Very hard to discern what this will sound like. Maybe a bit like "The Wretched." I'm guessing it's directed at our president his men. Again, very hard to figure out how good/bad this will be. 7.0

The Collector: Sounds very poppy, like a Foo Fighters song. Oh, wait, Dave Grohl is on this album; what am I thinking? I don't like it much. I'm guessing it's a jab at media content. 5.0

The Hand That Feeds: When I first heard this song, I wanted to shoot myself. It's VERY poppy and the lyrics sound like they came from a GI Joe-type cartoon intro. But, I've heard clips in better quality and it's starting to grow a bit on me. But, I still see me skipping past this one. My guess is the song is about the utter stupidity and sheepishness in anyone who voted W. last year. Before you email me, young Republican: I didn't write the song. 5.0

Love is not Enough: I like this one. The guitars are great and it has that all-powerful "stripped down" quality to it. I like it a lot. Especially the "Hey's." I'm guessing the song is about the hypocrisy of hippies thinking they're gonna get over on love and such, when they're just as annoying as conservatives. 7.0

Everyday is Exactly the Same: This is another that's just too short a clip to say. It sounds great, I like the background noises, and the title reminds me of my own pathetic life. I think this song is about my shitty life. Really, I think Trent Reznor tripped the light fantastic and lived in my head for a good week. Again, no clue, not enough on the clip. 7.0

With Teeth: K, my first word of this came from a forum that said it sounded like this: "With-uh, Teeth-uh." And I'm like, that blows. But, on hearing it: it fucking works. Big time. The music is killer as well. This may be the best song on the album. It's the title track, and it's probably got something to do with Trent pulling the gloves off on this album, and going to full CAPS. 10.0

Only: Another killer song. Sounds a lot like "Into the Void," but who cares, it works. This was described in Rolling Stone as being spoken word, Prince-like, and having a "Billy Jean" beat. I think they fucked up. I can kinda hear a "Billy Jean" beat, and maybe it's spoken word, but the prince thing is probably "Sunspots." I like this song a lot. My guess is it's the great rip on Republican entitlement. 9.0

Getting Smaller: Apparently there's a leaked full version of this, but I wouldn't bother. This song sounds like shitty Pearl Jam – and I wasn't the first to make this comment. Actually, it was a Pearl Jam fan, but never bother. This seems to suck. This song probably has something to do with losing one's personality or self through boredom and drinking and...oh, I started explaining myself again. 4.0

Sunspots: And I thought "Only" would be the new "Closer." Well, judging by the title. Anyway, this song sounds a lot like Prince or Lenny Kravitz or, basically any Rock and Rolling black man from the eighties...wait for it....and it works! It sounds pretty e-rotic. It's a "Closer"-type song, so you know what it's about. 8.0

The Line Begins to Blur: Fucking awesome. I've heard the full version and I can't stop listening to it. It definitely is one where you think "Hmmm....yeah, this is good." Then it goes up exponentially from there. Especially the part after the first chorus. I love this song. Another "stripped down" feeling song, with strong drums that remind me of "When the Levee Breaks." I'm guessing it's a ref to some part of Ursula LeGuinn's (spl?) book The Lathe of Heaven. It's a story about a guy who can control his dreams and they become real, but then this guy manipulates the power and aliens come down and Will Smith battles them like a champ. In fact the rest of the songs on the album are about this. See, first half: Bush bashing, second half: Will Smith and aliens.10.0

Beside You in Time: Spooky. It sounds like the end of the world. I like it. Real moody and detached. The background "marbles nailing each other" sound is wicked-bad. 9.0

Right Where it Belongs: Sounds very Donny Darko Soundtrack. Considering Trent may be working on the next "guy who wrote donny darko" movie (I hate research), this shouldn't surprise. This is the "Hurt" of the album. A tearjerker, complete with all your friends, family, world cheering in the background as you reflect on your life. Or, it could be the sound of aliens zapping everyone around you because you made the mistake of dreaming about it. Either way, this song is pretty good. 8.0

Chris Connelly: The Night of Your Life

Dude, buy this album. It's super strange. It's like blue grass and lounge music. I'm out of write, but seriously, this is good album.

Ministry: Side Trax

This is also awesome. Buy this album. It's a bunch of side projects from Ministry.

Newest Elliot Smith

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Health Care - just kidding

Teenagers are the Only Cool Thing on this Planet

(When they're not playing rap full blast and talking like 50 Cent was their English teacher)

Click Me

I would've gone the Ding Dong route - it's less gay.

Also, whose semen did he use? His own? I have enough homophobic tendencies that the mere idea of any dude eating my sperm would make me ill.

Also, I could never pull this prank off because I'd be up for attempted murder.

No, I don't have AIDS, but I have toxic sperm.

See, when you blow a load, you fire off a dollop of manifold fighters that are intent on doing only one thing: penetrating the egg like a bunker buster.

The sperms fight each other to get to the egg like a feeding frenzy for a donut involving the Rove and Limbaugh families.

Good god that was a shitty analogy. I sat there and thought about it for a while, even.

Moving right along, each sperm battles every other sperm, using their tails like whips to mangle their opponent. Towards the end, it's down to 100 sperms all battling it out in the steel cage that is the...the...the fucking place where the egg gets fertilized. Damn!

But, only one sperm will have the grappling skills to squirm its way into the cradle of life like the man who produced them squirmed his way into the woman's one bedroom town home.

It's vicious and it really tells you something about humanity.

If it weren't for social norms, I would strap a tail on my back and whip my ass at anyone in my way to get a cup of coffee in the break room.

Man, that would be awesome. And, basically, it means that whoever shakes their booty the best is the overlord of man. Sir Mix A Lot would be President...Good God!

Anyway, so, sperm are like rabid Dobermans. That's the point I'm making here.

Wait! No, my point is that my sperm would kill someone if injected.

Well, in high doses, like the kind that would frost an entire batch of brownies.

Dude, that kid must have spanked it a good fifty times to frost an entire batch of brownies.

You gotta work for revenge.

So, ladies, don't worry, you can still blow me: my sperm is only lethal in high doses.

The reason being: my sperm are drunk and they smoke. Imagine swallowing millions of drunk little tadpoles, all smoking cigarettes.

Now, imagine the amount that it would take to frost brownies.

You'd choke on cancer and cirrhosis.

So, ladies, the moral of the story is this: never ask me to frost brownies with my semen, because it'll give you cancer.

Oh, and Sir Mix A Lot would be your overlord if we lived like sperm.

Blind Justice?

Click Me

Look, I have nothing against guns: John Kerry, Kurt Cobain, Hunter S. Thompson, William Burroughs, and Chewbacca were all gun owners.

I myself am not a gun owner. The reason: I would end up like Cobain or Thompson. Hell, even worse: Kerry.

But, are we going too far when we give the blind a gun?

My cousin is mentally handicapped and her birthday is coming up. Do you think I should get her a Beretta?

I don't care if the guy used I-Ching to nail the target and Patton guided his hand from beyond the grave: it's just too fucking nuts.


I know it's rude to compare the blind to drunks – but, look, neither of us can drive a car, so why would we get guns?

I guess this makes me wonder if this guy has a seeing sight dog. Like, it nudges the barrel toward the target for the blind dude.

Also, this guy has the best excuse in the world for murder: HE'S FUCKING BLIND!
"Mr. Blindguy, what happened on the night of September 22?"

"I shot my wife."

"Because she was having an affair with the Gardner?"

"No. Of course not. You see, I didn't know it was my wife, I thought it was the target."

"What? Are you blind?"

"You better believe it!"

Well, I'm done for today.

Oh, wait – I came upon something that you might find shocking. You may even cry. I don't know. But, I would have to say that the fate of the world probably depends on this.

K, so you know those small, nothing microwavable burritos that you buy in 30 packs at Costco? You know the ones that replaced Top Ramen as the stoner food of choice? K, well.... here goes.... they have FUCKING 280 calories in them apiece! I know what you're thinking: God Matt is fucking awesome. Then, you're probably thinking: Dude, it's a fucking microwavable burrito, did you think it was healthy?

Of course not, that's ridiculous. But, the tiny fucking thing has the same amount of calories as half a sub from Subway, with everything on it. Not only that, but if you eat two of these little things you're eating the equivalent of a Whopper.

Why not just get the fucking Whopper with all that shit on it?

Good Lord, will anything make fucking sense in this world.

Oh, also, Mt. St. Helens is blowing again. What a bitch. Cross your fingers that it desolates Eastern Washington even more so and that it somehow gets me out of work.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Alien Sandwich

Levi Part 2: The Neighvors Strike Back

There's something awful about being drunk at five o'clock on a Sunday afternoon.

You have two choices: sleep or drink. And the more you drink, the drunker you get and the office will always meet you Monday morning.


I try to avoid it, when possible, but when two blondes corner you in the hallway of your apartment complex and demand cigarettes, while double fisting Pabst, you know you'll soon be drinking – 2 in the afternoon or not.

I try to avoid the Spring Break kind of drunk; no, men like me were whittled out of the lumber that prefers to stay home and brood over their drink. It's a curse to those who question the good lord and enjoy the humor in suicide.

But, damnit if I hadn't had a boring weekend. Not, that I let loose on that Sunday, but I did experiment with mixing alcohol with women.

They cornered me in the hallway and were intent on drinking with me. It was Neighvor 2 and her friend.

I always had the feeling that Neighvor 2 was a snob and a user: the type of woman that would leave you 500 miles from anywhere when the money ran out.

But, today she wanted to drink and I think her friend had grown bored with vagina monologues. She was nearly begging me to drink with them.

"Too bad. Baby gets nothing – I need to sell these DVDs!" I had been broke and needed to make some quick dosh, so I looted my DVD and CD collection of the crap I was now making myself listen to to justify their purchase.

Ugly Bowie videos, liberal propaganda videos, shitty Elliot Smith, soundtracks to shitty movies, and that midget porn I had purchased in Beirut.

"You're going to pass up drinking with two women to run an errand?"

"Jesus, no! I have to sell this shit in order to buy us beer and cigarettes. Don't you understand? I'll be gone twenty minutes. Hold down the fort and we'll be drinking Budweiser and smoking Marlboros before you can finish reading a shitty blog."


Twenty minutes and I was back. The hilarious laughter of drunken women greeted me from the porch out back. I quickly drank a beer in order to get into character and made my way outside.

My eye was on the friend. She began asking me strange questions, like a reporter. Where I was from, where do I work, and how many cats have I killed in order to maintain an erection.

Soon, the conversation degenerated into sex, like it always does with women, and the friend was telling me how she had just purchased a vibrator for a friend.

I told her the


So, an ex an I were in this sex shop – buying a dildo. For her – I swear. Anyway, when we get to the counter, the lady behind the register says "OK, well, let's try it out first."

My girlfriend and I look at each other dumbstruck.

Could this woman be proving to us that lesbian sex is as cheap and in such frequency that a loser like me would soon witness it? Did she want to grab my girlfriend, spread her legs and plunge the red shaft, later dubbed Raoul, into her steaming womanhood?

No, she just wanted to make sure the thing would buzz, cuz you can't take them back for obvious reasons.


So, I explain this and the friend asks me why I bought my girlfriend a dildo. I tried to explain that it was e-rotic to watch her use one and that you could simulate threeway sex and...I had overshot, these women were not that liberal and it was too early in the drinks. I ended the story, even when they pressed I no longer wanted to explain to them my need to buy my girlfriend a dildo. It just didn't feel right.

The beer began hitting me and I began thinking that there could be some way to get the friend into bed, even though it was Sunday and she was leaving in the evening for Portland.

Before I could put any drunken move on, the Neighvor's boyfriend arrived. I was told beforehand not to mention the boyfriend who had been at my house in a previous episode. It seems she had tired of him, and had moved on to this new one.

The boyfriend arrived and I soon found myself out of the loop. Just like that moment when you look around a party you weren't invited to and realize you must leave or be shot.

I braved it and soon found myself watching "The O.C." with these people. I stared at the degenerate anorexics on the TV for an hour and soon the boyfriend left.

We went out for cigarettes and the Neighvor was visibly trashed. It was four.

We go to the 7-11 to get smokes and the Neighvor has brought a beer. She's waving it around like a trophy when a cop drives by.

He flashes his lights, turns around and we abscond back to the porch of the Sevi.

After waiting it out, we go to The Great Nabob for pool.

The buddy bartender from weeks before is in there and we play doubles, as the place is empty.

I'm pretty much just moving the stick at anything round by this time and I become very aware that I don't have much of Sunday left in me.

The women leave, as women do. I debate ordering whiskey, just to be completely insane, but more people come in and I decide I don't want to be arrested in this condition.

I go home and watch The Bridge Over the River Kwai, drink two more beers and pass out at 8. I wake up a few times and curse the blondes that made me drink with them and finally manage to go to work on 10 hours of sleep.

I am a drunk.

In other news, I took some Vicadin on Saturday and wasn't impressed. Prescription drugs blow.



Saturday, March 20, 2010

Fun at the Movies

Top Ten Things That Make me Want to Murder People in Movie Theaters

10. Guy in back of me at popcorn line who kept telling his friend about his new SUV. "It's a commitment, I'll tell you that. The maintenance alone will put me in the garage a bit, but I think it's worth it." Listen fuckface, first of all you suck, second of all your SUV is probably double parked over the bodies of homeless people, you awful, awful hairy yuppie.
9. The utterings of the usher. "mmmovemmthemmm" What? Then I have to nod and say something which doesn't complete the interchange and I get a "You idiot" look. Shit, talk AT THE HUMAN LEVEL OF COMPREHENSION. Christ, I'm not a fucking bat, sonar boy.
8. Large noggin guy in front of me. Shit this guy had the tiniest body in the world and by some genetic/future planning, God decided to place the fucking cranial giant in front of.
7. Extremely poor hygiene girl. She's got fucking zits the size of Gibraltar and some kind of wound on her hand. Shit, I want popcorn, not a bastion of ebola served by Bella Logosi.
6. Movie Previews. Fucking every time I watch these things I get in a sour mood about the fucking movie I'm going to see. Christ, either no previews or make the fucking movies as good as the adverts.
5. Kids. Shit, I don't care if they're deaf, dumb, and paraplegic, they will still annoy me. I feel like I'm watching a movie in a daycare. I got at least three kids running up and down the aisles like batshit chickens on Ritlin, two kids in back kicking my seat and making that fake kid laughter sound, and about nine screaming babies who need to be shown abortion footage to kick start a better fucking attitude about life.
4. The bathroom. Fuck, for some reason people seem to think it's OK to talk to you while your taking a piss if you're in the movie environment. "Did you see those Orcs? Pretty sweet." Yeah, I saw the Orcs, now can we finish this conversation when I'm not holding my fucking dingus, you fuck?
3. Nacho eaters. I don't know why this bothers me, but are we such fat assed Americans that we need a fucking full appetizer to sit through two hours of something. Like, this theater is your surrogate living room and you have to have your microwaveable chud to enjoy yourself?
2. Fucking lines. Let us in! Shit, every movie I go to you can just walk in a half hour before, but the second it's a real blockbuster, money maker they won't let you in till two minutes before the fucking thing, then they start it right when the third person walks in. When there's no one there, they fucking start the movie a half hour after it's supposed to start. By the time the line starts moving I'm wishing to God I'm in a line for a Polish shower ala 1939.
1. My ass. Never fails, one hour into the movie and the fucking thing feels like rocks in a leather bag. Can we get some fucking couches in there or some sort of rubber donut so I can get through the movie without my pelvic bone being slowly ground into a diamond?

Seckshul Harris Mint


I'm Gonna Sexually Harrass You, Babe: But, in my Head
By: John Llamas

Oh, baby. You don't know it, but the things I'm thinking of in my head would cause you some alarm.
Oh, yes! If you even had an inkling of what I'm thinking right now, you'd report me to my manager.
That's right, if my mental processes were published in a book it would be called Fired: the Story of John Llamas.
Two words that describe my sexual harassment of you: punishable by termination.
Well, that's actually three, but the thought processes I have going on right now are so focused on sexual harassment that I can't concentrate on simple numbers.
But, let me say that I have one number in mind that if i were to speak it to you and raise my eyebrow like this - you'd be on the phone with my manager in seconds.
That's right, I can raise my eyebrow as I'm talking to you, but you think it's because you're explaining the figures from last week.
But, no, I'm thinking of a dirty number.
Wait, oh yes. You just bent over to grab your notepad.
That's right - I'm doing it again and you were turned around, having no idea that I was staring at your butt.
You make this too easy for me.

I Know You're Sexually Harassing Me in Your Head and Could Give a Fuck
By: Cynthia Strong

John, you think you're pretty smooth sexually harassing me in your head, dontcha?
Well, bud, I could care less.
I know you're the type who gets off on intimidation and power, considering that you must have a small dick and will be in the typing pool for the rest of your life.
You see, John, it's guys like you who are probably closet homosexuals and take the reverse psychology of it to an extreme to prove to yourself that you're not gay.
Well, John, go ahead: sexually harass me in your head.
I can't blame you. I mean, I do have a sweet ass and a fine rack and have been known to give it up on the first date.
I mean, if you're gonna sexually harass anyone in the office, it might as well be me. I figure whatever you're thinking about I've probably done it in the back seat of the boss' car during lunch on Monday.
Hell, whatever you're thinking of has probably been done to me against my will at some point in time, considering my drinking problem and all.
So, harass away, John.
Oh, clever, I like the little raised eyebrow. Was that supposed to be cute?
It wasn't John. I'm sure you were thinking of the number 69.
See, women see through this shit.
How's this John? I'm bending over to grab my notebook. You like that, sweetie?
Whatever glory you're getting out of this, let me tell you now that it's nothing close to the power trip I'm getting off making you act like the chained animal you are.

NIN Party from Before

Bad Movie and NIN Release Party

I saw the worst fucking movie in my life last night.

Moby Presents: Alien Sex Party.

First off, I have no idea why I rented this.

Second off, I hate Moby.

Last off, I just wanted to do the last off thing from Napoleon Dynamite.

So, I finish The Bridge Over the River Kwai (fucking awesome movie, get it.) and since I have only the fa├žade of a life, I popped in my next Netflix movie, which was the disaster Moby made.

The guy's music is fucking techno ala elevator and his annoying mug makes me want to brutally torture bald people. So, why did I rent this?

It had the word "sex" in it.

That's the only thing I can think of. There's no other reason I would rent this.

Well, I pop it in and here's the low down:

It's about this porno shop on Christmas Eve. I'm sure some alien shit went down, but I didn't finish the fucking god awful movie.

But, it's not just a bad movie – it's like Dogma, it wants to be something it could never be.

Dogma is another movie that was pure pretentious garbage. "Hmmm, let's say some obviously P.C. things that come off as revelations and throw in that ghost that was George Carlin."

Thinking of that piece of shit makes me want to kill God.

Anyway, the Moby movie tries to act camp by making a movie about a porno store where all the actors and the plot resemble a porno movie's bad acting and bad plot.

I think that's what they were shooting for; otherwise, it's just a shitty movie with no pretension, thus making it not as bad.

Also, they try to gig on the Clerks motif by having a couple of guys sitting around bullshitting about comics and sex. Then, they throw the guy from Clerks into the mix to somehow make you think: "Oh, well, if he's in it then they aren't ripping it off, it's just a homage."


This movie is so fucking terrible in so many ways that the only use for it is to recommend it to an ex-girlfriend.

This movie is so fucking terrible that I wish it were a living organism, because I would grapple with it until it begged "uncle."

This movie is so fucking terrible that I bet if I shot it from a cannon into North Korea, within a week they'd surrender to us and beg the United States to take them over if only to get rid of this awful, awful movie.

Good God I hate this movie.

Nine Inch Nails CD Release Party: I WILL ARRIVE!

So, it's just been announced that there will be a release party at Experience Music Project on the 29th.

EMP is the shitty rock museum that Paul Allen shat from his ass while holding his enormous girth up using the Space Needle for leverage.

I'm excited about the release party, but I have my reservations: fucking Goth kids will be there.

Look, I like nails, but I by no means believe I'm a tortured vampire like these kids.

I can just picture them: all fat with eyeliner and bad acne, giving you looks for being wasted and demanding strong drink.

I can picture it in my head: I'm going to show up wasted, get the free poster, mug some kids for their free posters, order the disc, get the free single, mug some kids for their singles, then lay back and listen to the new album after removing eyeline'd children from the futuristic chaise lounge that only EMP can offer.

Soon, these smarmy little punk Goths with their Britannica knowledge of every hair on every mole on Trent Reznor's ass will converge on me and demand revenge.

I'm sure they'll do this by summoning level four D&D powers of altruistic revenge demons upon me and crowd around licking their fake vampire teeth in anticipation of


God, the ecstasy of taking a plump Goth kid and throwing him or her through a plate glass window and then stabbing them with their huge crucifixes and....

K, I'm done.

But, you get my point: this would be a lot cooler if Goth kids weren't going to be there.



Things to Help You Stay Sober


Do you have a drinking problem? Are you in recovery? Is recovery becoming boring and dull? Can't find a way to fit in a life without the fuel you crave? Tired of AA alternatives to drinking?

Well, here is a list of 50 things you can do that will make you feel like you're drunk without having to drink.

It's just that simple!

So, here, for fans of the search for Larrington, I present a 50-step program...because most of you should stop drinking.

1. Walk up to a horse and ask it to "show me your tits!"

2. Spike the office coffee with Pepsi.

3. Explain to a small child that George W. Bush has his or her best interests at heart.

4. Purposely weave, and then hit another vehicle on the road. When the vehicle pulls over, hit them again, and again. When the cop comes, go "Ha! You caught me, but this time I'm sober! Joke's on you, Jack!"

Turn off all the lights in your bedroom, turn up the music really loud and throw books at the wall as hard as you can when the choruses hit.

6. Ask a homeless person for some change.

7. Order stew at McDonald's.

8. Admit in an AA meeting that you started drinking because a mule raped you at the age of 13.

9. Put out a new album.

10. Email Barnes and Nobel and demand that they carry slacks.

11. Use the word "galoshes" as much as possible.

12. Spam your entire office with offers of a free "stapling."

13. Wipe a Hershey bar with toilet tissue in the bathroom, come back and while holding the tissue up say "Toilet's not flushing" then throw the tissue on your boss' desk.

14. Tell people that robots from the future are coming to kill you, because you know which celebrities are gay.

15. Hit on a parked car.

16. Show up for a kindergarten class.

17. Fill up a 32-ounce AM/PM mug with gasoline and then look at the person at the pump and say "I'm a robot." Pretend to drink.

18. Announce at a family dinner "I'm still not gay!"

19. Put up a "Free Rides" sign in front of a retirement community.

20. Hang a photograph of another person's apartment in your apartment.

21. Serve a turkey stuffed with microwavable burritos and Hotpockets.

22. Tell the person you're riding up an elevator with that "God, I wish you weren't in here, cuz I really have to fart."

23. When ask for a light, rub your hands together really fast and say "I hope my charred hands are worth your nicotine fix."

24. When asked what you did the night before say you "made love outta nothing at all."

25. Broil a soft drink.

26. Empty your BBQ ashes into an urn and place it on the mantel with a gold plate that says "Cheesburger: May 2005."

27. Repeat 26, but drop ash onto front lawn and place some dog tags in the middle of it.

28. Order a cheeseburger at the library.

29. At church, yell "Bring forth the sacrifice!"

30. Tell people that you can communicate with "the animals." If they don't believe you, say you'll demonstrate by having consensual sex with their dog.

31. Answer your phone "I wish I was dead. How are you?"

32. When asked for foreplay, reply "K, I'll go get the silverware."

33. Burn the flag of Peru; just in case they piss you off and you don't have time to purchase a Peru flag. Tell people that you're always prepared for life.

34. Burn Peter Jennings in effigy.

35. Call the Larry King show and tell them they've won a donkey.

36. Turn to a coworker and ask "Do you smell that?" Raise an eyebrow and say "that's the smell of total commitment to this project." This is especially funny if you work fast food.

37. Place coins over the eyes of a sleeping loved one.

38. Accuse a shrub of stealing your wallet.

39. Ask for the new Nine Inch Nails album at the Gap.

40. Ask your boss if you can ride them.

41. If you're a cop, aim a gun at a tree and tell it to freeze.

42. If you're the President, take up religion and bomb a country.

43. Get those inflatable staircases for your car.

44. Get those drop down oxygen masks for your car.

45. Place those vomit bags from the plane in the pews at a church.

46. Change your name to "That Guy/Girl."

47. .Begin sentences with the punctuation they should end with

48. Decide that 50 means 48.



Mel Gibson

Passion Fruit

By: Ronald Baulm

It was just before dusk when I began crying.
Looking at it hanging on that Popsicle stick, nails plunged into its fleshy skin...I wept.

I would like to see your input....world....finish this farce on Mel Gibson's Passion and win an all expense paid trip to....win a dinner with me.....no, um, I'll send you a buck through Paypal!

A good way to start about it is to buy a passion fruit and look closely at it. I would recommend three to four hours of this. Then, read the part in the Bible about Jesus...I think it's in Genesis. Right after they shoot Spock down into the atmosphere of Earth where he grows up all fast and – oh, there's that part with Moses and those things they put in his ears.
Anyway, send all responses to tape4dispense@yahoo.com. From there I will review and tabulate the results using a calculator and some punch cards. From there we'll determine the winner!
And send them a buck.
So, remember: The Passion Fruit as Christ. We'll display the winning entry on Easter.
God bless,

More Attention

Look, I have to level with you: I'm going to be on hiatus.

I know this is hard, but I need to take four days off to get really drunk.

Please, don't cry.

For I love you.

You and your camel toe.

God bless,


Hooker Factory

Pull the Fucking Plug

Listen, while I still have motor functions and a brain and hand that work in unison, let me write the following: pull the fucking plug.

I've been alive for almost 29 years now and you dirty bastards, whether friends or family, should start at least THINKING about pulling the fucking plug on me.

With the way in which I have treated my body since day one, it'll be a wonder if I'll be able to complete this article without passing out on my keyboard.

Look, I know you have wholesome feelings about me and that we all had some good times together, but let's face it, I'm not getting any better.

I spent the better part of the weekend drunk, and the parts where I was sober I could barely form complete sentences in the grip of massive hangovers. So, I ask you family: what's taking you so fucking long?

I'm in a goddamn coma over here and I can't remember the last time I didn't feel as if this was all a haze.

There must be a plug somewhere! Don't give me that shit. Look on my back.

Fine. K, then shoot me. I don't have the courage to do this, so just fire a large caliber weapon into my face. I'll even write a letter giving you legal permission to do so.

Morals? Fuck your morals – I need to die pronto! I didn't choose to be here, so don't give me that shit.

Good lord! How hard is it, really?


More Poop

Can We All Agree that the World is Poop?

"Absolution and a frozen room are the dreams of men below."

- Ministry, Burning Inside

I was going to launch into another brilliantly unfunny diatribe against Bush today, when I realized something.
The world is poop, why be angry with a specific portion of the poop?
The Buddhists, in my limited knowledge of Buddhism, believe that all is one: when you see a tree or a shoehorn, they are also a part of you – all matter in the universe. You, good man or woman, are just energy slowed to a walking, running, driving boil.
With this in mind, let's call all matter in the universe poop and go from there.
Why poop? Why not?
Some might say "hell," but hell is driven and focused on a certain goal to make you suffer. Now, the world, by and large is unspecific in who suffers and who rides a Hummer to Mars with a Pepsi endorsement.
But, on the other hand, the nonspecific threat of poop is much worse than hell in the way that even those that are successful can fall into sufferings such as guilt, obesity, and drug addled paranoia.
Trust me, I know.
So, one could call this world of poop hell. With this in mind we can all agree on religion – we must've all fucked up rather rotten and we are living out some religious persecution for our sins.
Therefore, we can now all agree on religion, dumbing down the poop factor to 50% poop.
Now, we have no problems in the Middle East. We shall now construct a Zeppelin that we shall fly from Gay Marriage and Abortion debates in the West to Allah vs. Torah debates in the Middle East. Our Zeppelin will be equipped with a great bullhorn that scrambles radio and television broadcasts declaring "Lay down your arms, look around you! You are in poop-hell! There is no right or wrong religion, we're all damned to poop!"
Problem solved.
Next, we take our Zeppelin across the world to take care of territorial disputes. "Lay down your arms, you have been fighting over poop!"
More problems solved. Now we're down to the 25% of detritus that is the core of poop: traffic jams, shitty TV, annoying coworkers, etc.
Woe to thee, oh Earth and Sea, for the Devil sends the Beast with wrath.
Whether that is a quote from the Bible or an Iron Maiden song, it sticks in the throat. And it should be said that the beast arrived sometime after we advanced far enough that we had periods in a day with nothing to do.
Here came the armies of industry with Big Macs and Starbucks, telemarketing and pop songs, tabloids and Jerry Springer.
Could it be that we gave up hard work in exchange for....poop?
I would rather have a conversation with someone about how the crops are doing and whether we will need to reap early than hear about how much money I can make by selling Party Lite candles.
I would trust the verse and chords of a man who plays guitar to entertain his family for free than a man who does it for millions of dollars as he sings about the woes of the common man.
What we need to get rid of the rest of the poop is to get back to work, build communities that work –
Good lord.
Look at the words I just wrote!
More poop.
This poop problem is a lot more diabolical than I thought. It seems, I, the creator of the poop theory has just found himself knee deep in his own poop.
But, others have traveled those steps and came out right?
Yes, Moses, a man who helped uplift a people...for awhile. He found himself not only covered in the stuff, but eating it to stay alive in the desert.
There's nothing like bat shit in the desert to clear a man's mind and help him focus on poop. Moses needed it, it got his groove back and he was able to bring us the commandments that turned society from barbarism to.... more controlled barbarism.
Damn, there's no way around it.
There may not be a way to fight the poop, maybe I have been forsaken?
Oh, Father, I implore you, deliver us from this poop so that we may not have to pay insurance on our limbs, bust out laughing at funerals for no reason, and shave our genitalia.
But, I digress. There's no place in prayer for genitalia and only a heretic would insert such a word there.
I guess the Good Lord never intended us to know about our genitalia until something awkward happened and then to feel shame about it. It may be that this world of sex and violence is only a vice as it is being presented to us as an out of reach monkey's paw that should never be admitted, thus making the blood and lust all the more –
More poop.
Let's start again.
Four score and seven years ago, a kindly man walked into a bar and asked for a Harvey Wallbanger.
There we are. That's a good way to start anything. They should put that sentence at the top of credit card bills. I would pay them more promptly and with a broader smile.
But, we were talking about poop and how even the best at heart (myself) cannot avoid running off the mouth in sick drooling flames of pure fecal matter that cannot be controlled as I'm only regurgitating the ideas and thoughts of man since way back. We need alien influence to fight the poop!
I say we scour Mars (check out the pics of the gigantic worms there) and find the truth! It could be that our creators are there, hiding from us in the sands and deserts, universally embarrassed at the huge turd they dropped in the form of DNA they prodded with a three prong electronic turkey baster.
They could be plotting our demise as I write this.
The worms will rise! Wasn't it said that Earth will be destroyed by Star Wormwood?
Or, will they let us live on as a planetary Jerry Springer show that they watch on TVs so advanced that they exist in the mucus extracted from the pores of the young worm saplings.
Maybe they change channels by slapping their oversized genitalia together and orgasming with each commercial break.
But, we're back to talking about genitalia and God never liked a dingus or woo-woo and good Christians know this.
So, where were we? 25% of the poop is left. But, now with the last few paragraphs we're up to 35%.
The poop machine must be stopped! But, lo, I still have nearly fifteen minutes left of my lunch.
This just in: more poop.
Maybe we could sell the poop? There must be an alien race that lives off poop besides us?
Yes, we could sell the poop to inhabitants of that newly discovered planetoid. They might need it; thrive on it.
And with the proceeds from this poop we can find new ways to route the poop, or continue to produce it while buying some true happiness and stability from the Mars worms?
Life's like that: endless possibilities for any man full of poop.
So, don't vote, don't go to church, and for God's sakes don't mention genitalia in prayer: because, where we are all poop, there is not reason to throw it at each other like monkeys in a shit house.
Yes, that's it, we're all monkeys in a shit house. If you leave me with nothing, please take that piece of wisdom with you and throw it at your neighbor.

Seymour Glass


Levi Presents.....the Thoughts of Scott McCarron – City Football League Hero

Man, what could I do to get the spirit up on the football team? Usually I turn to the good Boz for inspiration, but I've lost his book...
You know, I could use a steak right about now. Steak...man, steak is a good food. I mean, it's no Ranch and Ruffles, but damn.... steak....
I should make up a new name for the Not Art King Team, I think Art doesn't think it's funny...I know, how about the Steak team.... man, steak is good....
HABA.... what rhymes with HABA? Baba? That's not a word though...Lava...well, that's slant rhyme...man, HABA is a funny word, maybe I'll name my miniature golf team HABA. I like the sound of that. Man, HABA is a just all-around good name. Steak and HABA? Yeah, that's a good name too.
God, is it gay that I fantasize about fantasy football? I mean, sometimes, I just lay in bed and think of stats and stuff, and, man, that's not wrong or anything is it?
I think that when Troy does that bowling hair-flip thing, I'm going to do something equally funny...like...man.... ummm...I know, I'll scream HABA! Man, HABA is awesome.
What should I get at Red Robin tonight? Maybe that BBQ Whiskey Burger, that sounds like a sound choice...I wish they had steak...but, you know, life's like that...
Oh, great a vendor...yeah, this guy seems cool.... maybe I'll invite him to play on my miniature golf team...oh, wait, no he lives in San Diego...but, maybe he'd be like a pinch putter.... should I ask him? No, no, Scott, come on, this is reality and people who live in San Diego don't want to play put-put in Redmond, Washington. Man, Scott, sometimes...
What if one day I just show up to work and be, like, a ruthless boss and order people around and stuff, then say "just joking" at the end of the day, that would be funny.... dude, whatever happened to the Smashing Pumpkins, they rawk!
Crap, I got applesauce on my shirt.... how did that happen? I haven't had applesauce since that one time in fifth grade when I got the turkey lunch for Thanksgiving...man that was a good lunch, but that applesauce just didn't sit well with me.
Whatever happened to Bobby "the Brain" Heenan? I bet he's doing well; he's probably like a boxing promoter or something...I bet I'd be good at that.... Hey, everyone, Lenox Lewis and Mike Tyson – Awesome fight!

Yeah, but, this is the real world and I think I'll just stick to buying shampoo for the health and beauty department.
Dude, they should make a shampoo that cleans the interior of your car. Like, then you could wash your hair on your way to work and it'd be like "hey, no biggie, it's cleaning my car too." I should talk to Spencer about that. I think I'll call Spencer.
Well, Spence didn't really get all over that, but oh well.
Dude, isn't it cool that I'm comfortable enough with my sexuality that I have a gay friend.... I should go meet more gay people and strengthen my sexuality...that would be dope....
Dude, this game of Tetris rocks.... crap, another vendor...oh well.... DAMN! SWEET! I got that one block in between that other one! I RULE!
Man, I wish I were Matt Eckert.

Eating Problem

More Eating Problems

So, let me go off topic before we even start: I just saw a man "farmer" blowing his nose into a sink, then inhaling water up his nose and blowing it out again.


Back on topic: I'm still fat.

Yes, still fat, but have run into another solution: "Eat your breakfast, Matt."

Recently, my mother was diagnosed with some low-level diabetes, which after dieting she may or may not have.

So, whereas my father has found Christ (another story, another day), my mother has found Atkins.

It's frustrating when your mother and father are fighting over your body and soul. It's a drama that I didn't think I would have to live through and lately the conversations have been degenerating into Christ and carbs.

But, Ma did lose a shitload of weight, so maybe I'll heed her advice.

As for my father – I don't think good Christians call you drunk in the evening and gloat about one of your favorite writer's blowing their heads off.

So, the one thing Ma kept harping on is the breakfast.

"You know, if you just eat breakfast it'll make all the difference."

"Just have a breakfast bar with your coffee."

"I've been losing weight and I owe it to eating breakfast."

"Dear Christ! Eat some fucking breakfast you fat fuck!"

And so on.

So, the other day I purchased some breakfast bars. I looked for the key words that spell out healthy: Nutra and Start.

See, when eating breakfast you have to incorporate the start of the morning and nutrition. That's why there's a million different breakfast bars, but "Nutra" and "Start" will appear in every label:






And so on.

I stood in the Fred Meyer weighing my options.

There was the 180 calorie ones, with no carbs.

Then there was the 90 calorie ones with massive carbs.

There were 60 different bars and no in between.

So, I purchased a massive carb and a low calorie box and spliced them together.

Now I'm set. I call my mother up and say "Ma, I'm gonna start eating fucking breakfast!" and then I hang up.

The next morning I eat a breakfast bar on the way into work. There's crumbs falling all over the place, I can't manage my coffee and the eating at the same time and I slam into a divider.

Later, at work I start feeling something that I haven't felt in years: hunger.

It's two hours after the consumption of the breakfast bar and it's done its magic: my metabolism has become a burning caldron of digestion and each atom of food is being processed at the speed of light.

You see, when you haven't eaten breakfast since first grade and you introduce the equivalent of kindling on the metaphorical fire pit that is your stomach you find that your body has a way of bouncing back.

I had plans to go out to lunch with Scott at around 12. By the time 11.04 rolled around I was about to eat my own hand. I'm looking at coworkers and wondering what the microwave time would be on human flesh. Worse, I'm actually thinking about eating food from our cafeteria.

Finally, a Fatburger later, I'm satisfied. I have quenched the beast, which is my newfound appalling appetite that was brought on by the evils of breakfast.

But, on the plus side, I lost ninety pounds all thanks to a Nutraberrycrunchcycle bar.

And, you know what? I'm happy.



You can't click on this

Read this and ask yourself "Do these people care about the woman or the issue?"

Click me


K, had to post again.

I'm outside, walking around the building smoking and wondering why I'm alive when I come across pony tail guy seranading his girlfriend with a guitar.

Next up, I'm walking through the garage and the praying people are out there again joining hands and praying.

I work in an office building. These things are not supposed to happen here.




Pointiff Mastiff

Pointiff-Mastiff come calling, walking down your street. I'm the Pointiff-Mastiff made of meat. As I walk they try to tie me with religion and primitive thought. I'm Pointiff-Mastiff and I'm free of thought. I had a cone on my head that I split open and wrapped around. Now, I won't scratch at my primal guilt; sleep in bed carpenter built. I'm full of fleas and lice, lies and guilt. I'm made of thumbtacks and stick I stook. Clammy hands and a flask of XXO and OOX. I'm something like an evolutionary T-Rex. Stuck in quicksand and bound to stick, I got a Pontiff's air and a Mastiff's dick. If you see me walking the town, make sure there's liquor around. Because, you know I grind and push when I'm on a biblical bender. I hump to the beat of Genesis, Revelations, and T-bones tender. To make tail-wagging look this good you need a religious trade, drink out of ivory and speckled cups and spend time in a feeding tube. There's life on the other side of the street: teaming with birds and small objects that become unquestionable to likes of God and me. I'm racing across the street. I'm a Pointiff-Mastiff and I'm as big as the world.


"I've thought long and hard about this and we've decided that we're gonna have to put you down."


I'll never forget these words and how they administered a lethal dose of zenotrophic morphine into my travel bag. I can't tell you how many times I've been almost killed: 87. I have notebooks full of such accounts and every last one ends with me writing "Ha, ha!" I'm a fucking real genius when it comes to escaping a harmful drug. See, what I do is, I hide in my mind and regulate each and every iota of drug to a safe place. For instance, I have 50 milligrams of cyanide stored in an ear and 30 ccs of hydrochloric acid that will soon be wept away after the next Oscar moment I see. By the time I'm 67 I'll be a living, breathing execution. And I value my time here. Why the attempts on my life? Well, first part: ecology friendly devices fuel me. I live off the land like so much battered chicken, set free to stagnate on empty farms in Vermont. You should really try it out. In my younger years, I was a bellhop to Sir Paul McCartney. He may have been the biggest prick to exist. He kept shouting for eggs in this falsetto voice I'll never forget. And to this day I'll never forgive him or the unicorn he brought into the hotel that shat all over my clean pair of linens. And it was that day that I decided that Nutrasweet was evil – don't ask why.


Good Lord, who does a guy have to blow in this place to get a beer?

It's pretty much eight and I'm sweltering in this weird bar in Tangiers.

I've been here for years and nothing's coming up right.

I sell tables out of the back of an unknown van and have a habit of forgetting why the hell I'm here.

I've got two insane Moroccans pointing guns at me and I don't know why.

Something about drugs comes to mind, but I've paid everyone off in beads and trinkets long ago.

One of them is mumbling something about me being American and I snarl at him.

I hate racism in all its forms, especially when it's directed my way.

He snarls back at me and I yell "White power!" as loud as I can.

The white barbarian overlords that rule this nation with their Walmarts and McDonalds come and ask in Ned Flander's voices "What's the trouble."

I exclaim "By Zeus! These savages are trying to steal my camera!"

The white folk lose appetite and put the old Afrikkkaner ramsickele down on my Negroid friends.

I feel guilty as I owed the fuckers money, but this is Africa, right?

I sip the rest of my whiskey and rape a prostitute in broad daylight.

I enjoy the wildlife.


The Alien

"I'm virtually human. Really, I am."

The counterman at the 7-11 wasn't impressed with my assertion that I was near human.

No, he wanted money for the shitty coffee I was buying.

It still amazes me why anyone wants money for anything. Hell, come to my place and you can have the quart of milk, bacon bits, and margarita mix that are the sole property of my fridge.

I guarantee it.

But, this man wasn't about to listen to my useless excuses on why I was "almost there" to being human and understanding your weird, vagrant ways.

In all honesty, you are a repulsive civilization that I have decided to let live.

That's right! I've been on this sphere of syphilis for 2000 decades and have been waiting to unleash my dark matter upon you.

Luckily you have pissed me off so much lately that I have my chance.

The problem is you bastards copy wrote the name "Dark Matter" and I have no way to communicate my "or else" demands.

Apparently "Dark Matter" is a porno movie that has nothing to do with how much I hate each and everyone of you.

So, I'm screwed.


"An angel? You must be joking."

"An angel."

"Are you good?" Tarek shut his eyes and began praying.

"Good enough." Lt. Flushing then shot Tarek twice in the forehead.

Lt. Arnold Flushing had gone AWOL in a big way.

Lt. Flushing didn't lose a friend, a leg, or a battle. He didn’t see any dead women, elderly persons, or children. He wasn't syphilitic, insane or cancerous.

Lt. Flushing was an asshole.

Picking through Tarek's pockets, he grinned at the two beautiful holes he had left in all that was Tarek.


The lieutenant wondered aloud "Is there a milk carton with my face on it somewhere?"



"Cunt." Thorpe whispers and she's gone.

Margaret May wakes up skinny and tired two blocks away and hears Thorpe whisper from the diner "And you will be sure and visit F106."

"Yes. Anything for you."

"Fat cunt, I'll be round to fuck you again."

"Anything for you." She looks in the mirror and twists her nipples in anticipation. "Anything for you."

The diner empties.



Holy shit. Am I awake?

"But enough about me. Do you garden much?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're Tarek, Al Jazeera, right?"

Tarek had known, had experienced American invasions into his home. But, this time, this time it was just one man. He wasn't even in uniform.

"Are you some sort of Secret Service? FBI? CIA?"

"I'm not even American, Tarek."

"What are you?" Tarek began tapping the emergency band on his cell phone.

"An angel." The man's eyes glittered as the sun rested below the window behind Tarek.


in the groin. She grabs onto the foot that is now in her and begins orgasming as she rides it with tears in her eyes.

He turns to the hostess and says "Actually, let's make that two."

The hostess falls into his eyes and grabs two menus in hypnotic servitude.

I keep dreaming about diners.

There's this man who greets me and buys me dinner and asks how I'm doing.

"Fat ass, what is it I can do for you?"

The woman stares at Thorpe and begins twitching.

"Fat ass!"

"I, I need help."

"With...?" Thorpe's smile broadens and he thinks about how this woman would fare in the jungle that he has lying in wait.

"I want to be skinny."




"So, I won't be so lonely."

"It won't change a thing, you fat cunt."

The woman weeps and Thorpe runs his boot into her again as she squeaks and moans.

"The silly thing is, you could be satisfying yourself, cunt."


- Chewing ice is a sure sign of colon cancer.

- Factoids about the power rock group Staind are misleading and unrepresentative of the band.

- Altered dimensions will be created in the year 2021. These dimensions will be made up of altered realities that will bleed into our own world when a super collider is run "for the sheer hell of it" by a drunk named Mell Potacki of Yonkers, New York to impress one Sally Hemmings of Mesa, New Mexico.

- Somewhere, outside of this room, I will look back and laugh.

- Saturday no longer exists.

- Small rodents have invaded the grain silo and are eating the baby's college fund.

- Birds and helicopters defy physics; but, not in that order.

- Uncooked pork will give you worms. These worms are called Henry and Linda and they will redecorate your colon in mute colors that will extenuate the shit stains. One day they will rise up and escape and buy Hummers and drive over homeless people and vote Republican and buy John Tesh.

Star Wars

Ronald Reagan got the idea for Star Wars from a B movie.

- Jesse James was a transvestite pharmacist.

- Smoking weed will give you syphilis.

- Eating any Kellogg's cereal can replace brushing.

- Your car could blow up any minute, at any time.

- If you find a lost child, make sure and have it neutered.

- Drinking two beers a night does not make you an alcoholic.

- Drinking two beers at night, at high altitudes, is a sure sign of alcoholism.

- Drinking one glass of wine a day will prevent judgment; when that day comes.

- I have a pocket watch, two pink lighters, a cell phone, and keys in my pocket.

- Saccharin is a made-up word.

- Graphite means "eat with a fork" in a made-up country in a thirteen-year-old's made-up story about these robots that live on Mars and have trouble teaching their human masters to not eat with their hands.

Chewbacca Abortion Practice


And so on.

It's nice to have a balanced meal. I figure this way I won't make whatever is easiest and unhealthy.

The TV, I have decided, has also fallen into the easiest, unhealthy category.

So, now, I've decided to regulate that as well.

I turn on the TV.

It's on channel 905, which is the Hard Rock channel. It plays music and displays factoids on the artists.

I will watch TV in half-hour increments of eeach and every channel.

I have upwards of 300 channels. I will refuse any special channels my keepers could grant. I will move up one channel in each increment. So, in 150 hours I will be through every channel.

Well, not literally; I'm not going to watch TV for 150 hours.

I watch the Power Rock channel now, and here are some interesting facts about a band called Staind.

- The lead singer is two midgets in a long robe.

- Their first single was "Chewbacca Abortion Practice."

- The band got its name from a smoker's toothpaste.


coffee pot and cup pop out of nowhere upon the tray. The pot pours itself into the cup like a ghost is waiting on me.

I sip from the cup and notice sugar.

I offer the Tweedles a cup.

"No thank you!" They sound incomprehensibly stupid.

I tell them it's the best coffee I've ever had and make the joke that I was worried it would taste like blue jeans.

"But, what do those taste like?" They both ask.

"It was a joke." I tell them.

"We love jokes." They look at each other a little perplexed. "But, we didn't get yours. Perhaps you know some more?"

"No" I tell them, "That's the only one."

"What about the one where you wake up alone in an apartment that you can't leave?"

I try to tell them that's my favorite one, but instead I wake up in an apartment, by myself, and unable to leave.

I get up and take a shower. It's 8.30 and normally I would be going to work; but I can't today.

After dressing, I walk into the living room and sitting on the counter is a cup of espresso.

I know it's an Americano with just enough sugar and just the right temperature.

I turn on the TV.

They told me I could watch anything and I say "The Prisoner."

If they found the joke funny, they didn't show any sign as the TV lit up and the Prisoner resigns from British Intelligence.


Harvey emailed me once to inform me on an evening he had had the last weekend.

He had shown up at a party where he vaguely knew some people.

There was fried chicken being served, and my friend decided to see if the chicken could fly. He then proceeded to hurl the chicken over the roof of the house.

He was utterly devastated by the results.

On his way home, he ventured into a grocery store in search of food.

He passed a woman in the bread aisle and stated "Some Chinese people came to me in a dream last night."

The woman responded, "What did they say?"

He said, "I don't remember." And moved on.

I would have moved on too, there's not answer to a question like that.

Soon, he came upon another woman and pleaded "They need to play more Michael Bolton in here."

She replied, "Sure."


only drink water.

My urine comes out neon yellow and stains the toilet.

I turn on the shower and vomit bile all over the tub, shower curtain, and toilet.

I hang my head in the toilet for two hours.

I do a line off the rim of the toilet and am able to walk to my bed.

I ask for another Valium and wake up three hours later to evening.

I am the son and heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.

-The Smiths

I was a part of a problem that I couldn't control. I couldn't speak or move in the presence of others and I would shake like an epileptic when any attention was paid to me.

I used to blame caffeine and alcohol, but I know otherwise.

In the presence of others, the simple act of receiving change from the purchase of a box of cigarettes would turn into a drawn out fit of hysteria in which a nickel falling into my hand felt like hours that I couldn't escape from.

I would lay plans for coffee, the cable man, and my manager in which I would say "panic attack" and exit promptly.

The worst was eye exams and haircuts; where people would concentrate all of their efforts on me.

I'm sure many an optometrist and beautician felt that I was some vagrant drunk in the fits of delirium tremens and expressed the tabletop story to friends in neat paragraphs that ended with "know what was wrong with him."


of a comedian if you haven't learned to lose. But, what's weird is comedians that begin to win at making others laugh lose their edge. Look at Eddie Murphy. He was funny till he started taking himself seriously. I guess it's a catch 22. There's no way to win at some things without becoming a loser. So, that's why I've taken up some intramural sports: bowling and football. I figure I could use the exercise and remember what it's like to lose. I mean, a lot of people would describe me as a loser, but it's more of a long-term thing. I need the immediate gratification of losing if I'm going to turn it into anything positive, and boy am I losing! But, I guess there are times when some bastard asks me "what are you good at?" and I have no answer. I really don't. I know


Jerry Falwell has Syphilis

In a brief interlude, I will join you again LIVE.

For the past week and a half I've been throwing pages from journals, randomly and in no order, at you in the attempt to play "see if the shit sticks to the wall." It's been fun and I've realized the awesome depths of bad writing alcoholism, boredom, and loneliness can breed.

But, never mind that – God has spoken.

25 minutes ago, the world at large received news from up on high that Jerry Falwell has syphilis.

God does not distribute syphilis haphazardly – look at Al Capone, Carl Rove, and Bette Midler.

No, God saves syphilis (a disease that spreads from your genitals to your brain like a Britney Spears album) for the diseased at heart.

Falwell is the devil incarnate and God knows this. If there was one true Anti Christ, this is that man. Even Hitler and Nixon look at this guy from hell and can't believe the pure bullshit and hypocrisy that comes from his mouth.

But, Hitler and Nixon ran governments, albeit into the ground, and didn't play with the Lord's words.

Falwell, on the other hand, turned a book that was supposed to civilize mankind into a barbed hand grenade and threw it at anyone who got in his way.

God doesn't take kindly to those that use him like a cheap hooker, and it's with that in mind that the Rev. has been taken down with what can only be described as the God's nuclear option.

When you run hatred and bullshit out of your mouth for 71 years, you figure at some time you're going to receive a dose of something that slowly eats your brain away until you're reduced to a Ronald Reagan stupor.

And let's face it, anyone who hates sex and free speech as much as Falwell probably uses his dick on dead children.

Everyone knows that those most against sexual liberation are those that don't want the liberated seeing them in some Louisiana brothel with three cocks in their mouth as some large aboriginal Alaskan is pounding them in the ass while wearing chain mail.

The slow death of this man will not bring about salvation.

This man is doomed.

The syphilis that is eating his frontal lobe will probably greet Falwell in hell and devour his brain daily like a modern day story of Prometheus.

Now, if I were Falwell, after obliterating this man in public, I would then pray for his soul in some sort of hypocrisy that causes brain damage to all those who read it and even the computers that process it.

But, I'm not like Falwell, I tell it as I see it and I make no apologies for beating a syphilitic horse.

Today is a good day to be a Christian.



Hate Mail


2 dead stocks of lettuce shoved straight up the state.

We're sitting around a television, thinking "man, how great."

There's something sick and wrong about Carl Rove ankle deep in pig fat.

And some hippie pitching balls of shit at his extended bat.

Just cuz we're homeless don't mean we don't care.

Just strut down streets oblivious to the alien bodies greeting us.

Said this was true once before.

And I laid down and said just what was true.

Man, can't think about this ivory jug that the tribesman gave to me.

I'm picking cantaloupe out of the couch cracks.

Said I said something about the mountain of feces that's building up on the floor.

We keep racing small children on the floor.

Said something about interlocking wood fittings for a table.

Large crucifix falling on my head.

The tribesman bats it away with stalks of leaf.

Falls into a kettle and we cook it like a missionary.

There is nothing more dead than a black book full of resurrection.

Said stupid Protestants stinking up the living room with lies, lies, lies.

I hope to see them leave.

Taking them with their skin.

Their smelling of bactine.

Make trailer parks.

Stinking Christians.

I hate them, I really do.


So, we go out Friday. I drive into Bellevue around five-thirty with no idea what I'm going to do as I wait for Josh and Monica. The whole last hour of work I'm trying to figure this out. It's got me crazy. I hate waiting on people and I'm running through ideas of things to do. I don't want to start drinking already. So, I don't wanna grab beer and go over to Monica's or just go into the bar where I'm supposed to meet them. I think about shopping, Bellevue is lousy with places to shop. But, what for and why? Is it worth blowing 80 bucks on a shirt just to kill time? I need groceries, but if I were to buy shit it would just sit in the car and rot while I'm at dinner. No, fuck it, I park the car and try to figure out whom to pay. They have these money slots, but they're all boarded up. There's an old man in the booth, but is he going to be there all night? Who the fuck knows? I leave the parking lot positive my car will be towed.

America is lousy with malls and the one I'm meeting them at may be the worst. It's just so neo-mall. You have a movie theater, a couple high end restaurants, a Tower Records and a mess of specialty shops for kitchens and bathrooms and such. There's probably a frame or scrapbook store in there, too. The worst is those hot tub stores. I don't understand how they stay afloat? How often do people buy hot tubs? And it's not like people buy them in bulk.

I decide to take a seat on a bench in the outdoor pavilion. I take out my phone and

Metallica Sucks

all this crap was only being called art because the personalities around it had been advertised as artists and how by proxy it was accepted as art, when in fact it was utter shit. That class was all about memorizing pictures. The only cool part was the African fetishes. Lots of nails and stuff, totally edgy and dark. The rest was for shit. So, I call up mom to see if she got a new fridge. She's got this old fridge that's all putrid and nasty, taped up and such. She just got the house renovated and the damn thing sticks out like a sore thumb. I hate that fridge. Growing up we always had a messy house and that fridge is the best symbol of it. The house is all cleaned up, but I wish we could axe that fridge ASAP. But, of course, she didn't get the new one and I'm a little disappointed and she doesn't understand. Oh, well.

I'm done with the phone. I go into Tower Records and decide to purchase anything that's not ridiculously overpriced – which isn't much. As I'm entering I come upon this sign on the door from the RIAA. It's all about illegal downloads and how it's hurting the industry and they have the name of all these shitty bands who support anti-piracy. What a fucking joke. Was there this big of a scare with cassette recordings? These shitty bands like Metallica don't realize the truth: there shit isn't selling because they suck now. Plus, they


only get, like, 14 percent of sales. So, you have to wonder why degenerate greed hounds like Lars Ulrich are siding with their real problem: the labels. What a toolshed.

I walk out of Tower 15 minutes later with Tool Opiate and Black Sabbath Paranoid. Kinda tells you where music is when the newest CD I purchased is from 1992. I can't wait till the new Nails comes out.

Milk and Sour Cream

will be gone till Tuesday. Please leave the milk and sour cream in the comments section.

Yes, brothers and sisters, the time has come: I'm taking an exam to see how retarded I am.

It's a four day examination and chances are you may see me on Nightline.

Take a look at the backlog, there's plenty of evidence to explain the exam I will soon be taking.

I love you all, so...so....very.....much.

Remember, you are a shining slice of bologna.



So, I was on vacation.

My aunt and uncle came across to Seattle from Chicago.

On the whole, it was fun. But, I've pretty much been stoned since Thursday.

My uncle enjoys the herb and had my sister procure it for him. I took the leftovers when they left.

So, last night I ate the following after smoking a bowl. It's been awhile since I got stoned and I totally forgot what munchies were.

2 donuts


A microwavable burrito

A shit load of Tim's Cascade chips

I probably ate some more shit that I don't even remember.

I think I spent the latter portion of Sunday listening to Kid A and The Downward Spiral over and over again on my headphones. Then again, I could have been listening to Neil Diamond – pot's funny that way.

On the plus side, I still feel fuzzy enough to not even know what the hell I'm supposed to do here.

Here being work.

Yes, I'm at work again. It's been since Wednesday and I'm having trouble figuring out what this blob of plastic and wire is...oh, wait, it's a mouse.

Yes, you call those things mouses.

Because they look like mice.

What else?

Well, I got to explore Seattle more.

I've lived here 27 years and I probably know Seattle as much as I know Dagobah.

But, I'm getting better.

My uncle and I got stoned and drove around Lake Union where I realized that there's a houseboat community down near Siam (restaurant). I found this interesting; along with the other millions of places I've never seen and would never have seen if I didn't have out of towners in.

Hell, I finally figured out where Gasworks Park is, after eleven years of not going there.

I really don't have much in the way of good stories. When you're with family you can't do outrageous things just for a good laugh.

I swear I'll come up with something funny for tomorrow, but right now I have work to catch up on.

I just thought of something funny.

K, show up to work, but do someone else's job. Like you're a lawyer and you go to your lawyer building (place where lawyers lawyer) and, like, rake the leaves outside the building. Then explain that you want to get a better idea of all the facets of the company or firm.

K, there's funnier things said in this blog, but just wait.

I'll be back like a Titan of humor and fill your lungs full of laughter. But, let me finish my charts and figures first.

Figure 1.0: The letter "L." The letter "L" is used in such words as "Letter."

Figure 2.0: The "$" sign. The "$" is used to denote monies. Example: $4.00. That's four dollars.

Someone wrote on a foil of gum I had on my desk. I can't make out the words and I'm wondering who could have done this and why? I mean, you coulda shot me an email, but oh well.

K, I'm off.




Art Class Revisited

"I've already had four beers..."

-Matt Eckert

I'd like to start off by congratulating the Deadly Cobra Art King team on their recent victory over the Fosterfarmers, or whatever.
Way to go.
I'm sorry that I could not make the game, but I was seriously hung over from the night before.
Why hung over? Well, I'll tell you. I had planned on sleeping with this one girl, and she was all for it, so I just kept drinking and waiting for her to be ready to go. Nine beers later and she decides that she needs to help her friend get rid of some troglodyte bouncer. But, rest assured, I got her number....which I will never call.
Such is life? Right?
Upon waking I realized that in the condition I was in I would not have been able to tolerate an unwanted stranger in my bed anyway. This has happened many a time.
The most famous encounter was the huge Robin Quivers lookalike that I took home one fateful May evening in 2000. The Lord has no mercy for drunks after a certain number of drinks and I am no exception. The spectacle of waking up next to a beached whale after a night of ugly sex is something that no man should tolerate.
It took an hour to finally get her on her way because of a "pressing appointment" I had. That appointment being, a trip to the toilet with some ipecac.
But, I was smart. The large beef-pot asked for my number and I gave her the correct one. Why? You may ask? Well, one thing I know about heffers: they are quite defensive, and sure enough, she called for directions home within minutes. Now, if I had given her a phony number, I would have had King Kong Undies on my doorstep within minutes looking for blood.
On the bad side, I couldn't answer the phone for a few months, but Scott was good enough to tell the Zeppelin that I had moved out and joined the circus...which isn't too far from the truth, that circus being a cavalcade of Canadian fun.
But, that's another story.
My point is, one night stands on the other side of booze goggles is a bad idea for anyone.
Just ask all the women who have gone home with me.
Therefore, I was unable to play in the game, and that may have been a boon to the victorious team.
We'll let God decide.
But, back to Art class.
I had decided to get thick into beer before I went to class. My reasons being, I had the day off and soap operas are intolerable under any means of sobriety. Therefore, I had a good four before class.
My irresponsible sister did not attend class and all I can say is nuts to you.
You missed out on Armondos. But, we'll get to that later.
Class went pretty much on par and I found that the barley and the hops helped develop my art in ways that mere encouragement could not.
But, the shading, cross hatching and stippling still suck. Yes, I was made to draw more cubes, cones, and what-have-you again. I felt like a retard in a physics class as Adam, Corina, and Kristen produced pyramids that could almost be picked up with their stark, contrasting stipple crap.
Stippling – who needs it. Van Gogh didn't stipple shit. But, oh well.
Soon, we were made to draw teddy bears resting on their lazy asses among Italian restaurant backgrounds. This became too surreal for me and I quickly began drawing Ed Asner naked among aboriginal women.
The instructor commented "Very profound."
And maybe it was.
Who knows or cares, the point is that teddy bears have no place in my repertoire, no, we will leave them to the likes of Adam who is quite a dandy with the stuffed animals I hear.
Later, we left Art for beers and pizza.
Armondo's is a fine establishment, so much so that I felt odd ordering a domestic beer, but seeing as how I would HAVE TO PAY FOR KRISTEN AND CORINA, domestic was the only way to go.
Adam ordered some Mirrorball beer, while Corina got the wine that came in a stein. By the end of the night we had to walk her out on a leash. There's nothing good about a bad drunk on a wine binge.
Kristen decided to forgo booze as she had spent the weekend shitting herself in a Taco Bell in Whistler for NO GOOD REASON AT ALL.
Later I would pay the bill, drunk; leaving a 100 dollar tip that I just can't be expected to be good for.
On the way home Corina rear ended my car about nine times and Kristen was hit by a drunk driver and killed.
So much for Karma.
Oh well, Kristen lived a good life and was a good Christian.
Adam on the other hand can go to hell, he only let me mooch one piece of pizza and I saw the sting in his eye over just that.
But, Adam is a heathen and prays to Roman Gods of old, and Jesus never liked that.
Jesus was big on carpentry and donations to evangelists. Jesus said once that he'd kill Jerry Falwell if he didn't come up with a million dollars – or was that God, wait, same thing, right? Anyway, Jesus could be quite the gangster when money was involved, and so can Adam when it comes to his pizza.
So, remember, when you vote Republican, make sure you have the money for Jesus and the pizza for Adam, cuz Good Christ, they will both come down on you hard.
Well, Jesus anyway, Adam will just look annoyed.
But, I'm not making any sense again.
But, why should I?
It's April now, and April is a good month to not make sense. This is the month Cobain and Staley died, the month where pot is smoked in extreme quantities on a given day, hour, and minute, and damnit if it isn't the month of Hitler's birthday.
Hitler was a pot head. He lived off herbal remedies for the remainder of his moth-eaten life. He was known to roast bowls as he had anal sex with Hitler youth.
It's true, and Michael Jackson has picked up on this and will soon be annexing Poland. If you don't believe me, check out the news; Jackson has been meeting with congress to discuss AIDS relief.
Or so he has said.
But, we know better and the goose-stepping, moonwalking jack boots will soon be at our doors with no mercy for you, me, or Keith Anderson.
Keith knew how to handle Nazis and that goes without saying.
Keith earnestly took care of one Angel McCall on the KR website, as did Kelly, Weisberg and I – yes, all banned from the site for NO GOOD REASON AT ALL.
But, that's what Nazis do, they get mad when you take their pizza, strike down evangelists, and kick people off websites during the Mad, Mad, Mad Season that begins in April.

P.S. I apologize for the lack of posts, but my writing partner has been hospitalized for gingivitis and I have been stone drunk since Thursday.

Try not to remember the Alamo too hard,
Matthew Guza Eckert