The Revenge of the Sith: NOOOOOOOOOO!
So, I saw the new Star Wars movie last night.
Right afterward I bought a meat hammer and directions to George Lucas' home.
Look, I'm not a film critic, or some super Star Wars nut that wants to pick apart this movie just because everyone loves it.
Hey, if you like this movie, good for you. I'm glad that you have that Alzheimer's-type rosy glow about your lack of brain cells.
In fact, I really wish I could have liked this movie. It's like in high school, when all the cool kids liked the Smashing Pumpkins: I tried to like them, I bought their albums, I watched the videos – but, in the end they were so horribly untalented that the mechanical band at Chuck E. Cheese's looked like geniuses.
But, first – the cool parts:
The entire movie is battle, battle, battle: It's true. From start to finish there is little romantic ass play or theological gibberings.
Watching Anakin burn like wood: The guy who plays Anakin is a whiny fag and should be concentration camp'd off the Earth. With this in mind, it was pleasant to watch him roast for three minutes.
Jar Jar is raped by Wookies: In a graphic scene we've all been dying for, Jar Jar Binks is raped to death by nine Wookies with 15 inchers. You get to watch as a Wookie penis penetrates Jar Jar to death in his ass, nose, eyes, ears, and two orifices that we later find out are used to expel a gas that is like an evolutionary self-destruct button that kills Jar Jar's entire race of "people." OK, none of that is true, but Jar Jar is only in the movie for two seconds.
Children are killed: Yes "younglings" are brutally slaughtered by Darth Vader. The only sad part is that we can't watch as moppets get those "I'm so cute" looks sliced out of their faces.
Practically every self righteous Jedi Knight is killed: It's awesome, the Emperor gives the order and all the pre-Storm Troopers turn on the Jedis, in the midst of battle, and fry them with laser fire. I almost came.
The Emperor: Good lord, this is the only person in the movie that can act. He's ferocious. He reminds me of Halle Berry when they tried to play the Oscar music in the middle of her speech. Also, he totally annihilates Samuel Jackson, who for some reason decided he could phone this entire trilogy in.
Now, on to the horror of the "NOOOOOOOOO!"
So, here's a play by play of the movie for those of you who read Cliff notes of TV Guide:
Badass battle reminiscent of the space battle in Jedi, only cooler.
Badass robot guy with smoker's cough kicks Jedi ass, Dooku is decapitated. I love it.
Faggy bullshit to explain the plot for those of you who can't remember what you did three years ago.
Ugly love scene, complete with an "I love you more" fight.
Enter the Wookies. I hate them, there's no reason for them to be in here.
More badass fighting.
Prophecies and miscellaneous bullshit.
Lightsaber fights a ga ga.
Flaming Anakin.
Dumb bitch bites it in childbirth.
Vader, all badass and ready for action rises with his new armor, ready to take out Alderaan, learns that his bitch is dead and yells "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" like the punch line in a South Park routine.
Terrible.
Some more shit that bugged me:
Yoda.
Yoda plays a flying gecko on crack in this movie and his inner city grasp of sentence structure becomes so self-mocking you almost wonder if he's putting us on. At one point he pulls off nine object/subject cross hatchings in a row and you're laughing your ass off, until the camera turns to Samuel Jackson who nods like he's just as retarded as Yoda and is soberly listening to a learned man or whatever the fuck Yoda is.
Natalie Portman and Samuel Jackson and Ewen McGregor.
Personal lives aside, these people are great actors. I've liked them all in Closer, Pulp Fiction, and Trainspotting. They're pros. But, for some reason they all act like seventh graders doing Shakespeare in the park – retarded seventh graders with A.D.D. Something I learned a long time ago: if all the actors are terrible the director is at fault.
George Lucas.
He wrote the dialogue for three year olds. It's true. Every last detail of this movie is deliberately over explained and overplayed for the three year old that George thinks he should cater to out of some remark on how children should be catered to because they are so innocent and soon they'll be sinking their livers and having unprotected sex in dark alleys with AIDS carriers. Nikki said it best when she explained that Lucas should be catering to the 20-somethings that were on board day one. Fuck children. So, basically, you have to put up with a lot of "I love you" to explain that Anakin and Padme are in love, and a lot of "I hate you" to explain that Anakin is evil, and a lot of "Oh, by the way, Jedis can now be immortal" to explain why Obi Won lets Vader kill him in Episode IV.
The immortality thing.
So, you get to the end of the movie and as a side note, Yoda explains that they've just made a discovery that Jedi's can achieve immortality. This is to explain the Obi Won thing, and "I will grow more powerful than you can imagine" thing in EIV. But, the delivery and timing are like if you just got cable, the cable guy explains the remote forward and backward and then, as he's leaving, goes "Oh, and you can watch TV programs too."
The fuckfaces in the theater.
Luckily, I missed all the pimpled D and D'ers who showed up to the opening. But, far be it from them to stay away. When the movie opened, a group of them yelled "Star Wars Rocks!" right at the "A long, long time ago" part. It was as if they'd been planning this for years, or maybe did it every time a new episode came out. In either case I wanted to grate their skulls like cheese. I know they thought they were being "rebels" by yelling their love of a movie franchise that's failed miserably, but couldn't they whisper their undying love to themselves? A wee "star wars rocks" that they could turn over in their mind as they try to escape the fact that I will be hunting them down like Jedi.
Love story.
I hate any movie with a love story. I don't care about love. I care about explosions, death, suicide, drugs, midgets, and badass soundtracks. You wanna show me love, splice a porn into the movie; that'll please me. But, please, for the love of donuts, don't give me a love story. I have NEVER seen a love story I was interested in. Sure, my heart is cold and black and is the emotional equivalent of the surface of the moon, but that doesn't mean I can't decide what's good for you and yours. Christ: "I love you" "I love you" "I love it when you say I love you" "I love you more since you just said that" "I love you more" "No, I love you more" "Isn't love grand?"
K, that’s it. I'm too angry now. Go away.
Pleace,
Traci
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Station Collapses
The station collapses. The station collapses. Bodies fall from pylons, this is violence. Brick after brick. The station is collapsing. The walls around the station surround. Falling down. Into the ground. Pens and pencils litter the ground. Walking down. Stairs and coffee down the stairs for more stares and copy. Run the job through the door. Out into the city and finding jobs. Jobs fall off the station and hit the ground. The table is decorated in dumpster divings. Celery and lettuce fall off Mom like lint. Dead TVs blocking all exits to prevent burglars from stealing our insurance. Health guidelines tapes up to the walls like wallpaper. Don't forget to take your pills that make you happy and follow them with some sort of depressant; no need to wreck Christmas. Christ in the microwave harvesting cheese. Timers set up all over the house to remind us to eat. Soap is rubbed on all parts of the station to prevent disease. Wash you hands by opening doors. Walk in and announce that you no longer need to use the bathroom. Angels cut off my genitals - saves on condoms. Jesus saves. Dry clean missions to space to vacuum off the dirt. And you send this tri colored umbrella into the theater. Everyone is doubly sure they won't get wet. Drying paint on the faces of those that march in parades. Pork and Pepsi is droppped from airplanes onto small villages and you can text 934849Laundry to send money to your favorite bank to process into tax deductions for Bill Gates that will buy whatever is useable to the small island from his stock portfolio. I own many pork in my stock Trapperkeeper that I bring to visits to Dad to convince him I have a job and no longer legally mentally disabled. They make me go outside to eat my food. I sick out the other kids in the house. All my nashing teeth and ugly flagulance. Send coroners to the bathroom. I can spell half the time. And I can only perform math with rhyme. They drive me out to the city and hope that someone will shoot me. Left alone nowhere to call home. This station is falling apart. Later I'm born through Hindu spirit into the body of a parked car and I feel this is higher up on the wheel. A man gets in and drives me to the station that collapses on my head/trunk. Mafia goons spill out of the 78th level and fall to the ground with ethnic slurs that still spin my head as I try to sleep and forget about all this shit falling out of the sky. Go home and play video games as a llama. Big toes all over the controllers. This llama smokes. I've been smoking the same huge cigarette for a year. Imagine walking into a room and finding a llama smoking a cigarette that's a yard long. You'd probably think you're in that one world with the Patriot Act and tasers being shoved into elderly hips. Spent the night in the park again throwing old mouse pads at squirrels. They took them and made a damn to keep beavers out of the park park park park. Purple mountains are only majestic in Disney parks. Eat more bark. Look out, that's gonna get called art. ////////////// > Then we move out into those ugly places between the atoms and learn space cadet lingo that's like speaking in tongues, but it's done with the flapping of arms. It sounds like farts. Go buy some furniture. Go buy some art....
Not Showing Up
Not Showing Up: A New Trend
"Eighty percent of success is showing up."
- Woody Allen
What more can we do to motivate you? Hmmm?
We had a keg, by Christ!
Of course, I'm talking about the football league we're on.
Quite contrary to what you may think, most of the time you are required to have players that show up to the games in order to compete.
It's a simple fact of life that in order to do something, something must be there to do it. Scott and myself recently conducted an experiment: we examined the effects of placing a lit firecracker in a box, while in another box, we placed nothing at all. To our amazement, the box with the firecracker exploded, while the box without the firecracker did nothing.
"Jehovah!" I exclaimed. Scott and I then proved that if the firecracker had not showed up to explode the box, the box would not explode.
Well, yesterday, a similar situation occurred when half our football team did not show up for our game. And wouldn't you know it: we lost.
But, this time we had an excuse.
Oh, brothers and sisters, we were amazing out there, but, by lord, there was no way to win when we reflected on the lack of showing up that occurred that day.
How do you expect your EDIT or your EDIT to play like the champions they are without the knowledge that their team supports them.
You can't and shouldn't expect that.
Poor Troy. I remember, during half time, he sat on the side lines sheepishly acting out what he would say to Spencer and J.D. when he went into work the next day.
"I mean, if you think we stink, you can tell me. I don't want any secrets on this football team. I'm a man, I can take it, but I think you owe us an excuse and an apology. We try so hard to win, if you don't think that's enough, let us know, man."
Then Troy broke down and it took the cheer and mirth of pointing at a homeless man and declaring "But, at least I'm not him" to bring him back into the game.
Where were you when we lost in the stadium of champions, underneath the Space Needle in all our glory?
That would be the line of a song that I will write about the event once I learn how to play guitar.
And, what about Weisberg? The poor kid played his first game with us and he played like a champ.
What's he to think when half the team doesn't show up? Who was there to drink his keg that he so cheaply didn't want to waste after his engagement party the night before?
Not half the team, I'll tell you that much my friend.
That half of the team was out in the exosphere of the stadium. Maybe they were washing a car, taking the dog out for a walk, or reading Harper's Bazaar.
It's anyone's guess, but I can tell you where they weren't: at Memorial Stadium with true patriots.
Did I bash my finger apart in vein?
No, I did it for the team.
And, yesterday, when Scott nailed me in my man tits with the football, or when I tackled an opponent I thought was a pink elephant coming for my cotton candy Wayne Gretzy statue, or when I fell face-first onto the football rather than catching it – what did I do all of that for? Was it in vein? Well, if you ask your J.D. Harpers or your Trisha Huffmans, I guess they might answer in the positive.
And what about Scott? The man who put this together for all of our benefit.
"I just....I just wanted to put together a winning football team...and...and to have them all show up....and maybe drink Chris' keg afterwards and stagger to the amusement park to blow Bud Light from the roller coaster onto small children. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?"
No, Scott, it is not.
Would I go as far as calling these non-shower-uppers unpatriotic? Yes.
Would I call them terrorists? You bet, because what else but terror is realizing that Matt is one of only three people the ball can be thrown to.
To those that did not show up, I say FORSHAME!
You truly are the bit of nugat mistakenly put in a cough drop, and we will remember this.
These colors don't run!
Don't tread on me!
There is no I in Team!
With that said, I would also like to congratulate my sister on another happy birthday.
Way to keep living!
Peace be unto you,
Matthew Jean Eckert
"Eighty percent of success is showing up."
- Woody Allen
What more can we do to motivate you? Hmmm?
We had a keg, by Christ!
Of course, I'm talking about the football league we're on.
Quite contrary to what you may think, most of the time you are required to have players that show up to the games in order to compete.
It's a simple fact of life that in order to do something, something must be there to do it. Scott and myself recently conducted an experiment: we examined the effects of placing a lit firecracker in a box, while in another box, we placed nothing at all. To our amazement, the box with the firecracker exploded, while the box without the firecracker did nothing.
"Jehovah!" I exclaimed. Scott and I then proved that if the firecracker had not showed up to explode the box, the box would not explode.
Well, yesterday, a similar situation occurred when half our football team did not show up for our game. And wouldn't you know it: we lost.
But, this time we had an excuse.
Oh, brothers and sisters, we were amazing out there, but, by lord, there was no way to win when we reflected on the lack of showing up that occurred that day.
How do you expect your EDIT or your EDIT to play like the champions they are without the knowledge that their team supports them.
You can't and shouldn't expect that.
Poor Troy. I remember, during half time, he sat on the side lines sheepishly acting out what he would say to Spencer and J.D. when he went into work the next day.
"I mean, if you think we stink, you can tell me. I don't want any secrets on this football team. I'm a man, I can take it, but I think you owe us an excuse and an apology. We try so hard to win, if you don't think that's enough, let us know, man."
Then Troy broke down and it took the cheer and mirth of pointing at a homeless man and declaring "But, at least I'm not him" to bring him back into the game.
Where were you when we lost in the stadium of champions, underneath the Space Needle in all our glory?
That would be the line of a song that I will write about the event once I learn how to play guitar.
And, what about Weisberg? The poor kid played his first game with us and he played like a champ.
What's he to think when half the team doesn't show up? Who was there to drink his keg that he so cheaply didn't want to waste after his engagement party the night before?
Not half the team, I'll tell you that much my friend.
That half of the team was out in the exosphere of the stadium. Maybe they were washing a car, taking the dog out for a walk, or reading Harper's Bazaar.
It's anyone's guess, but I can tell you where they weren't: at Memorial Stadium with true patriots.
Did I bash my finger apart in vein?
No, I did it for the team.
And, yesterday, when Scott nailed me in my man tits with the football, or when I tackled an opponent I thought was a pink elephant coming for my cotton candy Wayne Gretzy statue, or when I fell face-first onto the football rather than catching it – what did I do all of that for? Was it in vein? Well, if you ask your J.D. Harpers or your Trisha Huffmans, I guess they might answer in the positive.
And what about Scott? The man who put this together for all of our benefit.
"I just....I just wanted to put together a winning football team...and...and to have them all show up....and maybe drink Chris' keg afterwards and stagger to the amusement park to blow Bud Light from the roller coaster onto small children. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?"
No, Scott, it is not.
Would I go as far as calling these non-shower-uppers unpatriotic? Yes.
Would I call them terrorists? You bet, because what else but terror is realizing that Matt is one of only three people the ball can be thrown to.
To those that did not show up, I say FORSHAME!
You truly are the bit of nugat mistakenly put in a cough drop, and we will remember this.
These colors don't run!
Don't tread on me!
There is no I in Team!
With that said, I would also like to congratulate my sister on another happy birthday.
Way to keep living!
Peace be unto you,
Matthew Jean Eckert
Uh....?????
I WILL NOT BE IGNORED
Two things have come to my attention in the last two hours that I can’t get out of my head.
Yes, I’m obsessing. My obsessions are preventing me from even taking a sip of beer.
1. Why am I not getting the truckload of comments that other sites are getting.
2. Is my penis small, and if it’s small – how will I ever please a woman.
Let’s get down to brass tacks. There’s a good chance that there’s only one person reading this, which leads us to the first obsession.
WHY AM I NOT GETTING MORE COMMENTS?
Let’s face it, you: look at the bottom of this entry in ten days. Let me guess: one comment.
Now, on the face of it, this would tell me that I’m a poor writer and that my blogging skillz are something of shambles.
What am I doing wrong?
I want to please you the reader, and many other readers. I guess what I’m saying is I just want to be loved.
With that in mind, why do I need to be loved? What is it that makes me think that I’m not loved?
Could it be
IS MY PENIS SMALL?
I just got a computer and, therefore, have been surfing the net for porn and my dingle just doesn’t add up.
My wedding tackle pales in comparison to Ron Jeremy and nearly every black pornographic acto; barring that one dude who got a sex change.
What does this mean for me and my penis: it means that in the game of procreation I’m a loser.
Or, at least in the bottom margin of losing. How can I expect a woman to love me without a good 15-incher? Is she supposed to treat my cock like some sort of burden to tow over the remainder of her sex life?
Have all the women in my life that have expressed interest in the size of my pee-pee been lying to me? Would they have left me for a bigger man?
You bet.
Just look at any porno movie and listen to what the women are demanding:
“GIVE ME THAT BIG COCK!”
They sure as hell aren’t yelling any of the following:
“GIVE ME THAT SMALL COCK!”
”GIVE ME THAT ADEQUATE COCK!”
”GIVE ME THAT SIZE DOESN’T MATTER!”
No, they want it big and they want it long. They want it like Gucci.
Sure, K-mart makes a fine handbag, but women aren’t going to give up and just deal with faux leather.
No, they want the real deal, the big cock, the big name, the big everything.
Women are vacuous twits who only live material lives in search of the bigger and better and will never value what is true, what is compassionate, what is….
GOOD GOD!
See, that was my small penis talking. My small penis is jealous of the larger ones and therefore is negating women entirely.
I think my small penis is a fag.
See!
Only a small penis would use a slur to describe anyone.
My small penis has gotten out of control.
It’s still clinging to the two women who told it “You hit me in my cervix.”
And “I’m glad it’s skinny, it makes butt sex better.”
My small penis has a number of these sentences written down and rereads them every time it’s questioned.
Which brings us back to the first obsession on comments.
Is it my vulgar portrayal of genitalia that is scaring you away from commenting on my site?
I’ve noticed the sites that get the most comments try to be interactive.
Should I do daily questionnaires and games so that you feel “a part” of this site and nuke the repulsive quasi-literature?
Should I do away with explorations into the depravity of humankind?
Will that help?
I need your reassurance that my blog is splendid.
And my penis does too.
Pleace,
Vaginal
Two things have come to my attention in the last two hours that I can’t get out of my head.
Yes, I’m obsessing. My obsessions are preventing me from even taking a sip of beer.
1. Why am I not getting the truckload of comments that other sites are getting.
2. Is my penis small, and if it’s small – how will I ever please a woman.
Let’s get down to brass tacks. There’s a good chance that there’s only one person reading this, which leads us to the first obsession.
WHY AM I NOT GETTING MORE COMMENTS?
Let’s face it, you: look at the bottom of this entry in ten days. Let me guess: one comment.
Now, on the face of it, this would tell me that I’m a poor writer and that my blogging skillz are something of shambles.
What am I doing wrong?
I want to please you the reader, and many other readers. I guess what I’m saying is I just want to be loved.
With that in mind, why do I need to be loved? What is it that makes me think that I’m not loved?
Could it be
IS MY PENIS SMALL?
I just got a computer and, therefore, have been surfing the net for porn and my dingle just doesn’t add up.
My wedding tackle pales in comparison to Ron Jeremy and nearly every black pornographic acto; barring that one dude who got a sex change.
What does this mean for me and my penis: it means that in the game of procreation I’m a loser.
Or, at least in the bottom margin of losing. How can I expect a woman to love me without a good 15-incher? Is she supposed to treat my cock like some sort of burden to tow over the remainder of her sex life?
Have all the women in my life that have expressed interest in the size of my pee-pee been lying to me? Would they have left me for a bigger man?
You bet.
Just look at any porno movie and listen to what the women are demanding:
“GIVE ME THAT BIG COCK!”
They sure as hell aren’t yelling any of the following:
“GIVE ME THAT SMALL COCK!”
”GIVE ME THAT ADEQUATE COCK!”
”GIVE ME THAT SIZE DOESN’T MATTER!”
No, they want it big and they want it long. They want it like Gucci.
Sure, K-mart makes a fine handbag, but women aren’t going to give up and just deal with faux leather.
No, they want the real deal, the big cock, the big name, the big everything.
Women are vacuous twits who only live material lives in search of the bigger and better and will never value what is true, what is compassionate, what is….
GOOD GOD!
See, that was my small penis talking. My small penis is jealous of the larger ones and therefore is negating women entirely.
I think my small penis is a fag.
See!
Only a small penis would use a slur to describe anyone.
My small penis has gotten out of control.
It’s still clinging to the two women who told it “You hit me in my cervix.”
And “I’m glad it’s skinny, it makes butt sex better.”
My small penis has a number of these sentences written down and rereads them every time it’s questioned.
Which brings us back to the first obsession on comments.
Is it my vulgar portrayal of genitalia that is scaring you away from commenting on my site?
I’ve noticed the sites that get the most comments try to be interactive.
Should I do daily questionnaires and games so that you feel “a part” of this site and nuke the repulsive quasi-literature?
Should I do away with explorations into the depravity of humankind?
Will that help?
I need your reassurance that my blog is splendid.
And my penis does too.
Pleace,
Vaginal
Please Take My Hand
Please Take my Hand on the Adventure that is Yet to Be
Stunning! You look absolutely stunning today.
My name is Richard R. Kimbel. But, my friends call me Wolverine.
I noticed you in the cafeteria and I thought that I would introduce myself. I work in the money department upstairs.
You have not heard of that department?
I want to invite you out – on and adventure that is yet to be.
What, per chance, is this adventure – but I cannot say, I wouldn't want to spoil it for you, my sweet.
Will it involve champagne? Maybe.
Will you be wooed by my charm and brilliance? Absolutely.
Please take my hand and journey with me to yon lunch table and let me further explain.
I understand that your lunch break is over – but, please, let me break your lunch before you break my heart.
Yes, that is a tear, I am crying. You have made me cry, oh, please won't you let me explain myself and put all fear aside.
Are we not in the cafeteria of WellsFargo bank? How could I harm such as you whilst the prying eyes of bank clerks look on?
Do not tremble, just sit, sit, sit.
There you are.
Oh, you are more ravishing that I had ever imagined, nestling your arms opposite my plate of macaroni. Yes, macaroni – FOR TWO!
Oh, but I didn't mean to scare you.
Let me explain the adventure that is yet to be, while I spoon up nature's cheesy nectar.
Oh, my blessed. You are even sweeter than this dish of processed cheese and carbohydrates.
Imagine!
You are in my Chevy Nova, arms feeling upon my leatherette and waiting in anticipation for our destination.
Where shall it be?
Shall it be Taco Bell?
No, alas, you are far too beautiful for Taco Bell, and I get gassy with Mexican food.
No, I shall whisk you off to Jack in the Box, where we should feast upon hot –
Where are you going?!
Please don't go, for I am a humble man, but I contain a great heart, and when broken it falls to the floor like shards of a Mason jar.
Yes, yes, hear me out.
Perhaps you are not into the fine connoisseurship of hamburgers, perhaps I shall take you back to my mother's house and see if she shall let me use the stove after so long.
Yes, the stove is dangerous, but I am a dangerous man and I shall make you hot broccoli with cheese and soda crackers and maybe open a bottle of delicious Boone's Farm wine that I shall steal from my mother's –
No, not yet! Please, hear me out for only but another second.
Yes, have some macaroni.
No?
OK.
Afterward, we shall adjourn to my bedroom, where I will treat you like the lady you are and not ask for sex, even though you owe it to me for the fancy meal I have –
Wait, no! Don't go!
Please?
Eh?
C'mon, my love?
No?
OK. You're funeral.
Does the WellsFargo café validate?
It does not?
But, I am patron?
But, I have given money?
Oh, you jest?
Oh, you jest very well. Have you ever seen an earthworm farm?
Oh, you will, you will....
Stunning! You look absolutely stunning today.
My name is Richard R. Kimbel. But, my friends call me Wolverine.
I noticed you in the cafeteria and I thought that I would introduce myself. I work in the money department upstairs.
You have not heard of that department?
I want to invite you out – on and adventure that is yet to be.
What, per chance, is this adventure – but I cannot say, I wouldn't want to spoil it for you, my sweet.
Will it involve champagne? Maybe.
Will you be wooed by my charm and brilliance? Absolutely.
Please take my hand and journey with me to yon lunch table and let me further explain.
I understand that your lunch break is over – but, please, let me break your lunch before you break my heart.
Yes, that is a tear, I am crying. You have made me cry, oh, please won't you let me explain myself and put all fear aside.
Are we not in the cafeteria of WellsFargo bank? How could I harm such as you whilst the prying eyes of bank clerks look on?
Do not tremble, just sit, sit, sit.
There you are.
Oh, you are more ravishing that I had ever imagined, nestling your arms opposite my plate of macaroni. Yes, macaroni – FOR TWO!
Oh, but I didn't mean to scare you.
Let me explain the adventure that is yet to be, while I spoon up nature's cheesy nectar.
Oh, my blessed. You are even sweeter than this dish of processed cheese and carbohydrates.
Imagine!
You are in my Chevy Nova, arms feeling upon my leatherette and waiting in anticipation for our destination.
Where shall it be?
Shall it be Taco Bell?
No, alas, you are far too beautiful for Taco Bell, and I get gassy with Mexican food.
No, I shall whisk you off to Jack in the Box, where we should feast upon hot –
Where are you going?!
Please don't go, for I am a humble man, but I contain a great heart, and when broken it falls to the floor like shards of a Mason jar.
Yes, yes, hear me out.
Perhaps you are not into the fine connoisseurship of hamburgers, perhaps I shall take you back to my mother's house and see if she shall let me use the stove after so long.
Yes, the stove is dangerous, but I am a dangerous man and I shall make you hot broccoli with cheese and soda crackers and maybe open a bottle of delicious Boone's Farm wine that I shall steal from my mother's –
No, not yet! Please, hear me out for only but another second.
Yes, have some macaroni.
No?
OK.
Afterward, we shall adjourn to my bedroom, where I will treat you like the lady you are and not ask for sex, even though you owe it to me for the fancy meal I have –
Wait, no! Don't go!
Please?
Eh?
C'mon, my love?
No?
OK. You're funeral.
Does the WellsFargo café validate?
It does not?
But, I am patron?
But, I have given money?
Oh, you jest?
Oh, you jest very well. Have you ever seen an earthworm farm?
Oh, you will, you will....
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Things Change
In light of my poor ratings and inability to address the issues that the blogging world enjoys, I have decided to change formats again.
Sure, I've done this before and written what could be call a FORREALZ BLOG, but without a life to speak of, I need more.
That's why for now on, I'm no longer Matt.
I'm Doug.
I'm changing the title of my blog and everything.
I need validation and I'm not getting it. Therefore, let's begin again.
WASSUP BLOG WORLD!!!!!
This is my first entry!!!!! LOL:)!!!
I'm Doug Gallagher and I love extreme sports. This blog is all about me and my activities and my dogs.
I love my dogs!!!!
I'm currently dating the most beautiful woman in the world, my She-She (we have pet names).
She's wonderful!
I met her while climbing Tiger Mountain three years ago and we've been in love ever since.
Oh, and did I mention I boat?
Well, in that case, I do! I own a 20 foot Bayliner I named "The No Fear."
Some people don't really understand the slogan "No Fear." I guess it's pretty popular now a days and I understand why.
But, many of you may not understand what it means.
See, NO FEAR means having no fear of such things as skateboarding a vicious pipe, or snowboarding down a cliff, or tearing ass around the lake in my Bayliner!
Dude, if you have fear, please GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!
That's right, this blog is strictly for those that enjoy taking a 90 degree turn around a dinghy at 90 miles an hour.
I guess you could call me an EXTREME sports nut. I guess I couldn't blame you.
More about me:
I'm a certified account at Deloitte and Touch. I graduated from Washington State University in the year of our lord 2000.
GO COUGZ!!!!!!
I'm also a Christian and a proud Republican.
I have no children, because I don't believe in premarital sex.
My love for Christ is the ONLY thing that supercedes my love of boating, hiking, snowboarding, and skateboarding.
I hate homeless people.
I know it's fashionable to give to the needy and all that shiznit, but it's not about me.
I'm Greg Gallagher and I protect number one – and my baby She-She.
So, that pretty much rounds it up for the first entry.
Tomorrow I'm going to go buy an Escalade – that's right, bra!
Peace Out,
Greg
In light of my poor ratings and inability to address the issues that the blogging world enjoys, I have decided to change formats again.
Sure, I've done this before and written what could be call a FORREALZ BLOG, but without a life to speak of, I need more.
That's why for now on, I'm no longer Matt.
I'm Doug.
I'm changing the title of my blog and everything.
I need validation and I'm not getting it. Therefore, let's begin again.
WASSUP BLOG WORLD!!!!!
This is my first entry!!!!! LOL:)!!!
I'm Doug Gallagher and I love extreme sports. This blog is all about me and my activities and my dogs.
I love my dogs!!!!
I'm currently dating the most beautiful woman in the world, my She-She (we have pet names).
She's wonderful!
I met her while climbing Tiger Mountain three years ago and we've been in love ever since.
Oh, and did I mention I boat?
Well, in that case, I do! I own a 20 foot Bayliner I named "The No Fear."
Some people don't really understand the slogan "No Fear." I guess it's pretty popular now a days and I understand why.
But, many of you may not understand what it means.
See, NO FEAR means having no fear of such things as skateboarding a vicious pipe, or snowboarding down a cliff, or tearing ass around the lake in my Bayliner!
Dude, if you have fear, please GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!
That's right, this blog is strictly for those that enjoy taking a 90 degree turn around a dinghy at 90 miles an hour.
I guess you could call me an EXTREME sports nut. I guess I couldn't blame you.
More about me:
I'm a certified account at Deloitte and Touch. I graduated from Washington State University in the year of our lord 2000.
GO COUGZ!!!!!!
I'm also a Christian and a proud Republican.
I have no children, because I don't believe in premarital sex.
My love for Christ is the ONLY thing that supercedes my love of boating, hiking, snowboarding, and skateboarding.
I hate homeless people.
I know it's fashionable to give to the needy and all that shiznit, but it's not about me.
I'm Greg Gallagher and I protect number one – and my baby She-She.
So, that pretty much rounds it up for the first entry.
Tomorrow I'm going to go buy an Escalade – that's right, bra!
Peace Out,
Greg
Some Women
HI!
I'm Sara and this is MY PLACE! LOL!
I totaly luv blogin' as you can tell.
I'm 22 and totaly sweet. I luv 50 Cent and Eminem and I'm totaly down with any rap or hip hop.
Wel, today was totaly lame. I totaly had to work today and it sucked!!!!! I work at a Gene Juarez as a totaly bitching hairdreser and i usuallly lov my job. Butt, today totaly sucked cuz i had this woman who was all like "You didn't do my bains right!" and i was all like "Uh, yes I did."
She was a total beeotch and i told gretta the same thing. Gretta is the gay guy i work with, but he's TOTALY COOL! He was all like "go one girl" and he snaped his fingers all bad like.
I love him sooooooooooo much. he's such a sweetie.
Anyway, so then i'm all tired after work and i went to appolbees with that james guy who keeps asking me out. he totally was all over me and i totaly didn't like it, so i was all like "back the heck up, bud!"
LOL! ROTFL! ROTC! AEIOU! FMIMA!
So, i ditched james and met up with rodney and totally went down on him in this like alley behind sizzler.
anyway, tomorrow i'm going out with freddy. he's like married and has seven children, but he's totaly into me and when the time is right he's going to leave his wife and be with me.
he's such a sweetie. except that one time when he put me in the hospital for nine weeks.
anyway, i better go. the O.C. is totaly on and i totaly can't wait to see what happens! :)
XXOO,
Sweetie!
I'm Sara and this is MY PLACE! LOL!
I totaly luv blogin' as you can tell.
I'm 22 and totaly sweet. I luv 50 Cent and Eminem and I'm totaly down with any rap or hip hop.
Wel, today was totaly lame. I totaly had to work today and it sucked!!!!! I work at a Gene Juarez as a totaly bitching hairdreser and i usuallly lov my job. Butt, today totaly sucked cuz i had this woman who was all like "You didn't do my bains right!" and i was all like "Uh, yes I did."
She was a total beeotch and i told gretta the same thing. Gretta is the gay guy i work with, but he's TOTALY COOL! He was all like "go one girl" and he snaped his fingers all bad like.
I love him sooooooooooo much. he's such a sweetie.
Anyway, so then i'm all tired after work and i went to appolbees with that james guy who keeps asking me out. he totally was all over me and i totaly didn't like it, so i was all like "back the heck up, bud!"
LOL! ROTFL! ROTC! AEIOU! FMIMA!
So, i ditched james and met up with rodney and totally went down on him in this like alley behind sizzler.
anyway, tomorrow i'm going out with freddy. he's like married and has seven children, but he's totaly into me and when the time is right he's going to leave his wife and be with me.
he's such a sweetie. except that one time when he put me in the hospital for nine weeks.
anyway, i better go. the O.C. is totaly on and i totaly can't wait to see what happens! :)
XXOO,
Sweetie!
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