Monday, June 21, 2010


Hold the Cocaine

"A Mexican Platter."
"That's one Mexican Platter, do you want anything to drink with that?"
"Yeah, a Pepsi."
"That's one Mexican Platter and a Pepsi. Would you like any extra sauce with that?"
"Yeah, ranch."
"That's one Mexican Platter and a Pepsi. Would you like a hamburger with that?"
"Wait – what?"
"Would you like a hamburger with your Mexican Platter, Pepsi, and ranch?"
"OK." The waiter looks around. "Would you like any cocaine with that?"
"Cocaine. Would you like any cocaine with your Mexican Platter, Pepsi, and ranch?"
"No. No cocaine. In fact, no ranch. Just the platter and the Pepsi."
"OK, so Mexican Platter, Pepsi, hold the ranch and the hamburger and no cocaine?"
"You don't really need to hold it, it doesn't come with the meal."
"All our meals come with cocaine."
"Doesn't that suppress appetite?"
"Yes. It's for after."
"OK, give me some cocaine."
"That's one Mexican Platter and a Pepsi with coke on the side and hold the hamburger and ranch."

The Date

"It's something about walking that really brings out the best in me."
"I like to walk. I'm glad we did this."
"Me too. You know, it's been awhile since I've been out on a date. But I can tell that you are special."
"Thank you."
"And I can tell that I'm gonna wanna see you again."
"That's sweet. You have nice pants."

The Mission Statement

"We sell plants. All kinds."
"Could you put that into a mission statement?"
"Um…we want to sell plants?"
"No. How about we want a plant in every home?"
"I guess."
"You're looking for investors aren't you?"
"Well, I'm trying to help you out with your mission statement. Just wanting to sell plants isn't much of a mission. Promising to sell plants is more mission worthy. In fact, collectively engaging in the retail of plants to further our goals would make more sense."
"I guess."
"You could even dress it up with collectively aligning behind the mission to bring plants into your homes no matter what and no matter what cost."
"That would work too."
"Of course it would."
"You have more, don't you?"
"We want to turn your house into a jungle – fucking jungle!"

"The neighbors are having a garage sale."
"What are they selling?"
"Garage sale stuff. Crap."
"Are you going?"
"Of course. You really get to know people by seeing what they don't want."
"You mean you could read me by looking at my garbage can?"
"You bet. Twinkie wrapper, Hotpocket box – you're fat."
"That's not very nice. But I am fat."
"Would you date someone based on what's in their garbage can?"
"I have. If you see money in there, they probably are rich."
"When have you seen money in a garbage can?"
"Just the other day in my boss' office. Big stacks of it."
"He could just be getting rid of evidence."
"That doesn't change the fact that he's rich."
"Good point."

I'm Here to Buy Guns

"I'm here for some guns."
"What kind of guns are you looking for?"
"The shooting kind."
"I think I know what you need."
"That's not a gun."
"No, but it shoots."
"But it's a slingshot."
"You don't like it?"
"I just want something gunny'er."
"Well, how about this."
"That's a sandwich."
"Yes, but it's made with gunpowder."
"There's gunpowder in that sandwich?"
"Ham, mayo, olives, tomato, and gunpowder on rye."
"Wow. But still, I want some real guns. Why are you trying to steer me away from guns?"
"We have a policy of giving a customer the benefit of the doubt and letting them think things through. I mean, do you really need guns?"
"Gah. I guess not. But I have all this money and they're so cool looking and I've never fired one."
"Are those good reasons to buy a gun?"
"No. I guess not. Just give me the sandwich."

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

The Truth Behind the Oil Spill

My Dreams Have Come True

Guess who's sitting behind me now, indefinitely?

My fucking boss.

Good Christ! What a way to start a Friday.

This means that from now on, I can stop being paranoid. There's no need to ever worry about my boss coming in and looking over my shoulder – I'll know for sure that she's there.

So, this puts a huge damper on my Internet activity. My day usually consists of:

9: Look at up to 12 different news, comedy, and blog sites.

10: Write in my blog.

11: Work

12: Check out a few choice sites.

12.15: Work

1: Check out a few choice sites.

1:15: Stare blankly at my monitor and try to figure out what to make for dinner.

1:30: Work

3: Figure out things to Google and Google them.

4: Work

5: Stare blankly at my monitor and try to figure out something to do that night.

5:15: Google things.

6: Go home.

My new routine will be as follows:

9: Work

6: Go home.

Could life get any sweeter?

It's not just the Internet, though. My boss is a multi-tasking juggernaut and loves to assign the most mundane gopher work to me. Therefore, now that I'm in ear shot I'll be spending a good portion of my day:

Writing instructions for printers that change cleaning packages with every new moon.

Helping wrap gifts for some orphan my boss has decided to put on her tax return.

Setting up streamers and confetti for the endless array of birthdays that run through the year.

Help take pictures of printers for said cleaning package changes.

Researching restaurants, movies, and how the Academy Awards work on the Internet. This will be only touch with the outside world.

I like change, but there's no good that can come of this.

Also, I'm self-destructive. I could imagine that one day I'll let the mood strike me and decide to throw caution to the wind, throw on my headphones and research the anatomy of a monkey for four hours with my boss looking on. I'd do it just to say "I could give a shit about this shit job."

So, you're looking at the end of me as you know him.

Oh well.

In other news, it looks like North Korea has nukes. If this comes as a shocker, you must be an ostrich or a Bush foreign policy advisor.

Rumsfeldt is down in Iraq for no reason at all.

Everyday there's another 30 people killed down there, why was it such a hootenanny when a mosque and a bakery got blown up?

Well, he's down there, so rest assured that the violence will end.

In a related story, riots broke out at Euro Disney and Mickey Mouse was sent as emissary to squash the violence.

Between blowjobs, Clinton said a disturbing thing while here in Seattle.

When asked about the nuclear nightmare in Korea, he responded something to the effect of "Well, if I were you I'd be quite concerned being on the West Coast."

Which rings true: North Korea has been testing missiles by lobbing them over Japan and once asserted that they had the capabilities to send a missile across the Pacific and nail the West Coast.

So, call Seattle, Portland, and Los Angeles "whipping boy."

And I mean it. None of us voted Bush as a majority and I'm sure he couldn't care less if an entire seaboard of hippies and degenerates get blown to kingdom come.

But, of course, we're pagan idolaters, so we'd really just be going to hell anyway.

On the bright side: we'll probably get rid of the majority of reality T.V. producers.

What else?

I watched the Best of Eddie Murphy SNL last night and realized something: he's the only black person on the show that was consistently funny. I know what you're thinking, but I checked and Chris Rock did not "rawk" while on SNL. He only came into his own when he left for stand up. Which tells you the rumors may be true: that SNL treats black performers poorly and gives them shit to work with. Or, they just happen to suck. Who knows?

We still have time to kill.


So, let me make it clear: this never happens to me! Let the cliches roll one. Seriously, I've had it where it takes me forever to come, but never limpage. OK, here we go:

So, I go out with Monica, Josh, Chris, Scott, Shanna, and Monica's friend NAME WITHHELD. Well, Monica tells me this chick is a total freak – swell.

We go out drinking and she's all over everyone, and she's wearing this low cut dress and her tits are practically falling out when she plays pool.

I'm like "mission accepted."

Well, we get to talking and she's into all this freaky shit. She had just gotten a divorce and explained that when she was with her husband they would swing and she'd do multiple dudes, women: the works.

Later in the evening, I'm piss drunk and making out with her all over the way to a diner. It got to the point that I was trying to talk her into doing it in an alley.

So, we eat and me and NAME WITHHELD leave to go back to my house. We start making out and the others come back and are cracking jokes about it. Chris says something and I actually start cracking up while I've got my tongue in her mouth.

This was the extent of my drunkenness.

At this point I just kinda looked at the whole thing from a comedy point of view, rather than a sex point of view.

The next thing I know, I'm talking her into going to the bathroom for more privacy: I live in a studio and there were three people crashing at my place.

Well, in the bathroom she first tells me that she has to go home pretty soon because her kids are home alone. The next thing she tells me is that she wants me to take her from behind in the ass.


I don't ever want to hear those two sentences in the same paragraph again.

So, we start making out and stuff and I go down on her and we end up in a 69 position. I'm still kinda laughing to myself at the whole scene and I'm still drunker than shit.

Well, I'm munching her box and not even aware of what's going down below: I have a vague feeling down there, but not much – I'm that drunk.

Pretty soon I hear "What's wrong?"

I look down and you can figure out the rest.

Limp as a noodle.
She decides to leave and I keep trying to talk her into continuing so that I can prove my manhood.

For the next three weeks I had to continually tell myself it was the booze, situation, her aggressiveness, and the fact that I had a timer set (I have to get home soon) and not the fact that my gear didn't work.

Well, I one nighted a woman later that month and all was well.

"Your dick is so hard!" was heard at one point.

Redemption was mine!

But, for three weeks – I woulda nailed a homeless woman just to prove it.

Such is life.




While I'm Waiting for my Imminent Internet Demise

I'll go ahead and write while I can.

I'm socially inept.

I was just at Taco Time and I realized I don't know how to use my mouth in such a way as to communicate with another human being in a conversational manner.

I'm at the condiment counter when a woman says to me "Never get between a woman and her ketchup."

Now, I may have heard everything she said wrong, or I might be so jacked in the head that the clicks and buzzes that come out of other people's mouths are scrambled when they hit my brain, but I think I heard her correctly.

That last paragraph goes through my head as I go "Oh...yeah." Now I'm thinking that I should have responded with a lighthearted joke.

"It looked like you were going to get sauce on your jacket, so I was just warning you." Now she has switched gears into another conversation. I'm thinking for a lighthearted joke, find none. I grunt in some way of showing her that I acknowledge and respect her as a human being, but for some reason I can't talk in any human being fashion.

"I just didn't want you to get sauce on such a beautiful jacket." Now, she's thrown in a compliment. I think about the jacket – a Helly Hansen ski jacket. It's not exactly something I would describe as beautiful. Expensive, maybe (I bought it with the consolidation loan I blew on such things as a 1000 dollars at a fucking casino in a hick town, five years ago), but not "beautiful." Also, who calls a dude's ski jacket beautiful? Is she coming on to me? Is she hot? This all goes through my head before I look at her "Yeah. Um, huh?"

I walk away with my coke and hot sauce and I'm thinking she must think I'm:

a) the truth: socially inept

b) some asshole who refuses to speak to strangers who don’t have skiwear as beautiful as his.

c) a time traveler who hasn't picked up the social graces of 2005 America.

Experts still agree I should be shot and buried in space.



Inside Out Dick

Bathroom Break

The thing about the bathroom is that you shit in there. I mean, have you taken time to really think about the fact that all over the world you aren't to shit anywhere but in a bathroom. I mean, you can't drop trow and just take a dump in the garbage can near your desk. But, there is one place you're allowed to lay steamy piles of defecation and it's the bathroom.

So, with that in mind, the bathroom is an odd place. The vilest thing most people (well, not according to a certain weblog) can think of is human waste. Especially mass-produced.

So, it's no wonder that the bathroom is a place fraught with hang-ups and weirdisms.

My own hang-up is that I don't like to leave a stall when someone is in the room and I don't like to shit next to another person.

The former is because I don't want anyone to know that I made whatever noise or smell that was made. Normally, unless it's some Budweiser induced massive attack, I can hold any sounds to a minimum, I don't even like other's to hear me drop a plop.

Now, the latter is just common sense. If I'm going to respect other's and not make them put up with awful noises and rancid smells, I'm sure as hell not going to sit by someone else who's making them. Also, there's something nasty about knowing you're sitting next to a dude who will eventually put a piece of paper up his ass and pull it back out with shit on it.

It's hard to concentrate now as the coworkers are discussing the fact v. fiction of Dan Brown books. I would say it's mostly fiction with enough fact to make it believable, but the second the religious fuck faces chime in I want to say it's all fact just to piss them off. I hate the religious.

Moving right along.

So, with my two hang-ups in mind, there's some people that piss me off.

Guy who preens himself in the mirror: So, there I am, on the shitter and I won't get up until the bathroom is empty. Well, there's this guy who comes in who does a complete makeover on himself for a half hour. It's funny, too, cuz he's a total dork. It's not like he's one of those club guys whose hair looks like it was done strand by strand, no this guy is a major dork. Anyway, I'll be stuck in the toilet as he combs his hair: I can hear his hair being combed that's how bad his hair is. Brushes his teeth: must do around nine passes with successive spits after each pass. Flosses. Other things: I'm not sure, but I've seen him in there when I'm not shitting and he has a small bag full of primping gear, so he may wash his face and change clothes or clean contacts as well. I hope this man dies. Any man who spends more than two seconds looking into a mirror at work is a twit or going on a date and this man couldn't get laid in a morgue.

Retarded guy: K, this isn't my story, but it's funny. Also, save your "don't make fun of people because they are different bullshit." If you treat retarded people like social untouchables, that's exactly what they'll be. Anyone who gets mad at you for making fun of another race, creed, or mental capacity is a toolshed who views people as so different and alien to themselves that they can't even give the them the benefit of mutual respect in the face of humor. With that said, there's this retarded guy at work and my buddy was taking a shit and the guy comes in and knocks on the stall door and asks "When are you going to be done?" Fucking classic. Oh, and I guess someone was using the can and they left their food out on the fountain outside the restroom and when they came out the retarded guy was going through their food. Fucking hilarious.

Boogers. This is the nastiest thing you will ever see. I work in a large corporation and you'd figure the people who work here would be adults, or have some hygienic grace. Hell no. There's this sign above the urinals that says "No gum, tobacco, or paper in the urinal" or something to that effect. Well, all over this sign are dried up boogers. Some fucking toad or toads use the sign as a personal palette to wipe their nose charm on. And I have to stare at it every time I'm taking a piss. It's so disgusting I feel like vomiting right now.

Loud Assholes: Well, there's one type that will come into the bathroom like they're about to present the President with the names of the terrorists who are hiding Bin Laden. BOOM! Stomp, stomp, stomp, unbuckle, ZIP! Then a torrential flood hits the urinal. Of course there are the loud shits that sound like Pearl Harbor through a kazoo. Those are choice, cuz even though I'm the only other person, I smile or hold my nose or scrunch up my face as if I was with someone else and needed to show them that I too find the noises disgusting. Then, the fucking worst is the guy who thinks it's OK to socialize while taking a shit or piss. No, guy who thinks it's OK to socialize while taking a shit or piss, it is not OK.

There's much more shit that pisses me off about the bathroom, but I'm getting too angry.


Where Was MY Invite


And i find that utterly e-rotic.

I yelled "Everybody go home!"

My dundershit boss goes "You'll just have to make up the time."

I'm salaried. This seems to mean nothing in this universe.

But, I do enjoy coining the phrase dundershit.

I got wasted and wrote some brutal gibberish that I will post soon. It makes no sense and I think there's some blasphemy for the sake of blasphemy. Stay tuned....




I cannot wait:

The Service

The Service

My mother makes me lie down in swarms of red ants - to teach me the lessons of life. I hold down this fort for my father – the great beast of a thousand tongues. He laughs at our fairly well played misery and chokes on the words of our sermons. We serve him well, in the true hell. The sycophantic oath to eagle's legionnaires. The true criminals, those in ivory towers with masks of gold. They command of us plankton to serve in their glass jars. It's a fight and a test. A true test to squeeze from you your idiot soul and rise to the ranks of topless, thrill seeking, neon glory holes. They take turns on your soul and laugh as your face is driven deeper into the Earth.

We rise up from deep fortress of the State. We align our brood within enemy rank. We will soon set fire to your beast and rip out every last sandled tongue. Inheritors of the Earth we are now, and the check has just come. Our rabble is now manifold and you'll soon be dining on the crow you fed. And fed up was never enough, in our large numbers we will feed sprit and conviction the likes of which have never been told. On this great day a grand religion made of fool's gold. Last laughs echo from around my ears and two millennia fall in two years. False prophets and kings fall like fire into petroleum waste pits and fuel the ever coming messiah we hope to come and lay our revolution to waste. Then grand phoenix will rise and manifest our conviction and make us one.

Drunk Burglar

Margery 1

Margery has dreams of tiger heads biting her ankles. Made out of plants, the tigers have teeth of beans that sink into flesh like balloons into timber. These are sick-pain hallucinations associated with the fever.

Margery is sick with pneumonia and lays still on her bed waiting for the next thermometer to be sunk into her flesh like a redwood atomic dropped into a lake of Jello.

There's something evil about the doctors and what they will humiliate to alleviate.

There's a dozen of them that come in, all dressed like clowns in her sickness.

She wishes to forget them that come in gun ships, like pirates in search of blood.

Heavy needles follow with promises of what will and won't hurt.

If she makes a reading of under 102, she's free to leave, but she keeps bleeding fever like Jazz in August.

Done triumph, oh hurrumph. The hallucinations become deeper now and she swears her mother is speaking in tongues.

"Oh say can you see? By the dawn's early life? So proudly I held a leg bone in the darkness of night."

Margery forces her eyes open, in an attempt to stop spinning. The walls cave in and she is surrounded by white.

A dark angel comes down and lights upon her shoulder. It's Mr. Ray Charles and he asks "Tell me what I said?"

She answers "You said 'tell me what I said?'"

He smiles at her and his teeth become a great wall and marching hammers align in front of it as


Margery 2

Ray's face disappears.

"It's just another brick in the wall."

She pulls the covers over her head and stares into darkness.

Her eyes adjust to the light and she begins counting the square patterns in her comforter.






A large garden claw comes through the comforter and rakes her chest.

She shouts "Oh, my!"

It's Freddy Krueger and he draws blood and begins laughing like a jackass and this makes her laugh as well.

He fades and she's left staring at the ceiling. A civil war breaks out and she's watching the North and the South duke it out.

Cannons blaze and blue and red soldiers get slapped back into the few corners of her room and fall like lice onto the floor below.

She applauds and a doctor comes in with another needle so sharp it isn't even existent.

Night falls and a team of rogue squirrels with cucumber machine guns launch an assault on the portrait of George W. Bush above her head.

Is nothing sacred?

She passes out and her vision is flooded with tiny stars.


Margery 3

The stars align into a staircase and Margery begins to climb.

There's nothing but space; black space and a staircase.

As she walks she hears Larry King narrate.

"Hello, folks. If you're just joining us, Margery is dead. We're gonna stay up with you tonight and chat with those she called family and friends. The phones are open, so if you'd like to share a memory about Margery tonight's the time to relive those years that bore a legend."

Margery sighs and keeps climbing steps.

"I grew up with Margery and went to school with her. What I remember most was she always had a smile for everyone."


"Sans gunboat. We cross the river Thames in search of bloody souls. We're legion in the path of destruction. There is no heaven or hell. We swap souls and the duty is bounty."

"That's just gibberish, caller."

"Hello, I'm patty Smith, I was Margery's first babysitter. What I remember about Margery is that she loved to play in leaves."

"That's heartwarming, but I believe we have Margery's mother on the line. Irene?"

"Yes, yes, this is Irene."

"Could you tell us a little about how you're feeling??

"Larry...Larry, it's like the sun has gone out of the sky and left for a better world. It's like – this is just awful, Larry. Why are you doing this?"

The world is now gone and Larry's


Margery 4

Show recedes into the vacuum.

Margery stands on the last step.

Looking down, she realizes that there's no stairs below her now.

And with no stairs above, there is only empty space.

Closing her eyes, she returns to the sun.

"Sweet tapestry of elements, what have I become?"

Super novas quake gas and answer


Dead on a little bed, Margery lies amongst greeting cards and wicker baskets of fruit.

Her family cries, a priest recites lies and within the secrets of death comes a new recruit.

In the end, the pagans were right and Jesus was just some carbon full of soot.


Patriotism Blows

Well, last weekend was pretty boring. But, on the other hand, I wasn't as hung over as usual.

Friday I enjoyed one fourth of Temple of Doom, before the garbage Netflix disc pooped out on me. On closer inspection, the disc looked like someone had shaved it.

Now, you'd think Netflix would give these things a spot inspection of some type? I mean it's hard to miss a disc that looks like Manimal attacked it.

Well, no harm, no foul: Temple sucks. Seriously, the whole movie is just a big gross out. Don't get me wrong; the other two movies are great. But, Temple was like Spielberg trying to gross his friends out at a game of double dare.

Hmmm....what else? Shaturday I went over to Scott's and got a dose of family life. Fucking kids and dogs all over the place.

We watched Raw and ate pizza. Well, I picked at mine, then the dog licked it and it had to be shot (the pizza).

Raw still holds up.

I believe a quiet fight took place as Shanna was stuck in the kitchen with Scott's kid, cuz Raw was playing. So, I went in the kitchen and colored with Shanna and Alyssa. Shanna explained to me how maternity leave was driving her nuts and asked if I had any drug dealer hook ups left (jokingly).

It's odd to hear this as someone is staying "within the lines" on a picture of Power Puff Girls (or whatever they are).

In reality, I too found it odd that Scott didn't seem to give a shit that the F-bomb was being dropped right and left in front of his kid. But, Scott has always amazed me in his efforts to be clueless about situations.

I drove home on six beers, which was really stupid, and parked in my new

**************************PARKING SPACE**************************

My parking space sucks goat balls.

I was parking on the street for the longest time and it sucks sometimes, but not that bad.

I mean it was on the street that someone nailed me and I was able to spend 2 grand in insurance money on Christmas gifts.

So, why the parking space? Well, one thing that does suck is coming home after an hour of traffic and finding fuckall for parking. Or when you have to carry groceries down a fucking large hill (think Streets of San Fran).

Another thing that sucks is that I can't parallel park. And, frankly, I'm getting sick of trying to figure out how much damage to a bumper warrants a note on someone's car.

It almost looks like I have one of those gay rainbows on my car with all the paint I've shucked from other cars gently tapping them when I park.

So, there you have it: I got a space.

They aren't assigned, but they still suck.

Why do they suck? The garage is the size and shape of roach hotel. The spaces are just wide enough so that you're able to only pull a Dukes of Hazard move to get out of your car. Also, in order to get around floors, you have to go around, then back up and maneuver the corner. It sucks balls and if I'm ever to be really loaded (god forbid) I'm going to end up destroying something.

Sunday was lame as well, I think I....what the hell did I do? Oh, I went to my sister's. Nothing big. It hailed.

Yesterday it snowed for a few minutes. Big deal.

Today, I've pissed off people on a chat board and watched as my boss slowly moves in behind me.

As for the chat board, it was this self-righteous asshole and his patriotism. I hate patriotism of any kind. It's so fucking ridiculous.

Look, did anyone choose what country they were born in? Nope. Have you been to every country on Earth? Well, then don't make the assertion that yours is the best. Just because we're at war that somehow makes us drones to that war? Fucking bullshit. If it weren't for all these governments and all these patriotic people we wouldn't be having wars in the first place. Good lord, I wish we could all live in small communities and pledge allegiance to the people we love and look after. Not a vague geographical notion of unity. What a joke. Do you, Joe Shmo from Arkansas have more in common with me than Juan Suez of Belize? Beyond language and proximity, what else? Does Juan have a collection of peanut butter sandwiches dating back from 1987 on his windowsill? Well, does he? If the answer is yes, and Joe's is no then....what was I talking about? Oh, yeah, patriotism is garbage. Think for yourself.

Yes, I realize the irony of telling someone to think for themselves.



P.S. I took a picture of a duck attacking a fish in the pond, but you can't really see it. I thought this was e-rotic.

P.S.S. K, I just looked at that picture and damned if I didn't take a shot of some oversized ghost DNA. Dude, I'm so esoteric?

What does esoteric mean? Please explain this so I don't feel like a tool.


So, there's this group of people that pray down in the parking garage.

Locked in hands, they speak in tongues.

No, this isn't shitty poetry. They really do this. It's odd.

I have nothing against praying anywhere,, it's weird. Especially at the base of a corporate building.

Also, I have this feeling that they may be part of a weird Kool Aid religion. Anyway...

Love is Christ

Another Inspirational Letter

Please pass this along, it really shows what can happen when you really believe.

Hello, I don't usually write these types of things, and I'm a little embarrassed about forwarding this on to everyone, but I think it's important.

Recently, my husband was diagnosed with an unknown disease.

For months we went from specialist to specialist and could not figure out what was wrong with my Frank.

I can't even begin to describe what it's like to have a love one sick and not even knowing how to even start to help him.

Then, last month I gave up and decided to seek help from above.

You see, for years I had turned my back on our savior when my mother had died and I promised myself that I would never turn to false hope again.

Well, I was at my wit's end at this point and I decided that I had nothing to lose. And, if Frank was not to become well, I decided that it was just Christ's plan.

It was a dreary January morning when I made my decision and I remember going out on the deck to ask Christ to forgive my sins and to accept me into his everlasting salvation.

Then, I told him of my problem in prayer.

Miraculously, the clouds opened and the sun came out. I began to weep and uttered "God, please forgive me for going astray." Just then, I feel a slight sting between my eyes and realize that a squirrel has hucked a nut at me.

I stand up and yell at the little motherfucker "Look, you fucker! I was having a moment here!"

Well, the little son of a bitch hucks another nut at me and I'm fucking really mad now. So, I take this large rock and throw it at the squirrel, but miss.

I run into the house and grab Frank's .45 and run back outside. Frank yells something to me and I'm like "Hey, go fuck yourself! There's a fucking squirrel out here that threw a nut at me while I was praying for you to be able to get a hard on, you ungrateful bastard!"

Yeah, Frank has this fucked up condition where he can't get an erection and Viagra isn't working. That's why I was praying.

Anyway, this fucking squirrel thinks he's all bad ass, so I take out his little buddy squirrel first, then some smaller baby squirrels that I hope were his and then I shoot the little bastard in the tail. He takes a dive off the tree and I pick his sorry ass up and nail him to that tree to die a slow death.

It was then that I realize 'Hey, fuck God.'

Please send this to eight people or I'll nail you to a tree.



Poetry Corner

Poetry Corner from the History Notes of Edward, the Guy who Wishes he was a Vampire

Oh, my black heart lusts after you
My dear, my darling dark creation of evil
Oh, yes, I dwell in the lurking shrouds of satan and
Whilst I sing your name in dark despair
I must warn you that I am
Yes, oh, dread me in all my black glory as I descend upon you and
Suck your flesh from the nape of your neck,
My beautiful, my taken and seduced

- rose to popular acclaim in the democratic primary
- dubbed the comeback kid in 92
- vp: gore
- hand in notes at the end of the semester for full credit
- need no. 2 pencils for exam friday

Darkling of supple chest
and deep flesh
It is to you that i wake up in the dusk
To find the idea of your heart,
Your pain
Upon me
Like cold daggers impaling me in the morning of
your night
My love

- Study group Thursday: Rebecca, Kyle, Andre. Meet at one in cafeteria
- The Clinton Years: 20 bucks, ask ma for money, need lunch money as well for the rest of the week
- Google Janet Reno
- Have early leave on Friday

My rapture
Revelations cast upon me
As I look into your eyes
And find my love forever
Bound to you,
to the slave that i am

- get parking pass through april
- ask steve for notes from geometry
- Ken Starr, Monicagate - impeachement proceedings.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Synth trees

The starting of the minotaur race was held on a Wednesday. And all blue clouds that can come are invited. These are the days of our lives. Pretty blue red flower flashing grey and gold. And then there were dreams. These dreams are like aluminum ribbon falling down a chain link fence. Curious? What will you ask of us? Eyes belting open and shut. It hurts the forehead. I wish you more head. I'm dragging this along like a cartoon painted green to show sickness. That's what these animals know. I didn't mean that. There's something about this place that wears off. Off this clothing and off this planet. All I cn . SOm.....This iopasopasas jk jl hjiop opa l; k yynjy aguoguoguoguoguoguok gggggggggasdagdk=27 5333333333333rme

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Red Blue

When their mind say. Say, can I have your mind? These were the things I was thiking. Thongs a twinling. There was a woman up in the apartment tower looking down at the aluminum sign and thinking where does this all come from. I walked passed her and wondered aloud, why do the thoughts keep thinking? Then, later in the room a small, aluminum robot ran across the floor and I turned to my wife and mentioned that I needed another drink. And she replied What kind of drink? This sent me into weird place. I really didn't know what I wanted to drink and this really concerned me. I am 45 years of age and I should know what I want by now. But I didn't. I could only look at my wife and make weird facial gestures that were supposed to convey confusion, but instead conveyed some weird need to eat brains. Because my wife ran out of the room screaming. Then I started to feel the need to eat brains. But, because of my dyslexia I determined that I needed to eat Brians. And then I realized I knew no one named Brian, and the thought of going outsided to cannabalize neighbors was abhorrent - I decided to turn on the TV. But then these news broadcasts came on with all their talking and debating and I grew more despondent and then I started thinking about where my wife might be. And then I thought about where she wouldn't be. This was much easier. I had her nailed down to the basement doing laudry. She's so predictable. There's things I can't say, here in this suit, in the 1970s, and still forgetting to take my hat off and hang it on the doorknob. There's this houseplant outside that scares me. It literally scares the living fuck out of me. I see it every day when I come home and I think """""""""IS THIS SOMETHING STALIN PUT UP TO DISCOURAGE ME FROM WASHING MY CAR"""""" And then I remember it's Breshnev, or whoever, and then I wake up and think I'm retarded for worrying so much about my car. And then, where was I? I was speaking about my failed marriage and Russian influence on the plantlife. The fern has got to go. I mean.....that's all I'm trying to say here. The fern has got to go. THE FERN HAS GOT TO FUCKING GO! What else? Welllllllllllllllllll....hte.....these somethings that haunt me at night. They are little, small gnomes that carry signs and request my fear - they make noises. But that's not all, they are also witches and demons and they. UH UH UH UH UH U*H U*HHHHHHHH<>!!!! See what I'm saying? Later they sandbagged the place and hung dead bodies on the buildings to make believe we had all killed ourselves. It made sense and it worked and the gang of desert pirates never touched the town. Go down, go down, go down. This had better be good. The wife walks in and has this crazy look in her eye and I'm thumbing my pipe and wondering when I started smoking a pipe. And then she begins beating me over my head with a rolling pin and then it all starts making sense. The bruising. The beat all. Fall like a fat, velvet sponge onto the floor. And then the crying starts and it's coming from me. Life of flannel. This dead moose on the wall, this door knob made or silk and brandy. I'm half the man I was two minutes ago, and that's some pressure! I could take math tests and join a college. Do you join it? I have money in the bank. This pressure on my head. This woman in the kitchen makes believe she's my wife and offers me milk. And this is so depressing to me. At work I pretend I'm in prison. So I have some excuse for doing this to myself. They want to retire me. I don't blame them.