Funeral Plans for my Goldfish 2001
Monday, June 7
• 10 a.m. PDT: Goldfish tank is removed from the top of my fireplace. Tank is drained and "Goldy" is removed with tweezers.
• 11 a.m. PDT : A private ceremony is held with Matt and Ex-Girlfriend who bought the fish.
• 12 p.m. PDT: Goldy lies in repose on a napkin above my computer. The public will be able to pay its respects through the night.
Tuesday, June 8
• 10 p.m. PDT: Lying in repose concludes at the VCR.
Wednesday, June 9
• 8:30 a.m. PDT: The Hot Wheels motorcade departs for the toilet with Matt sadly repeating "choo-choo."
• 9:30 a.m. PDT: Aircraft takes off from Point Mugu, headed for Andrews Air Force Base, outside Washington, D.C. This has nothing to do with my goldfish, but did happen at this time in 2001.
• 5 p.m. EDT: Matt drinks a beer and pours half of it on the rug for his "dead Goldy."
• 6 p.m. EDT: Fight ensues due to Matt's incompetence that lead to the fish being boiled alive above the fireplace.
• 7 p.m. EDT: Make up sex.
• 7.02 p.m. EDT.: Couple watches "Iron Chef."
Thursday, June 10
All day: Couple goes for a hike; forgets that fish is on the bathroom floor on a Hot Wheels Corvette.
Friday, June 11
• 10:45 a.m. EDT: Couple returns home to horrendous stench.
• 11:15 a.m. EDT: Goldy is thrown across the room, using a spatula, into the toilet.
• 11:30 a.m. EDT: Couple says solemn prayer.
• 1:45 p.m. EDT: Motorcade is put back into top "fun drawer" of Matt's nightstand.
• 2:45 p.m. EDT: Matt throws a paper airplane above the toilet.
• 4:45 p.m. PDT: Matt makes 21 gun salute sounds with his mouth.
• 6 p.m. PDT: Couple holds each other as Matt flushes the toilet.
• 6:15 p.m. PDT: Matt asks "why did you buy me a damn fish for my birthday?"
• 6:16 p.m. PDT: Fight ensues.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Norp
ARNOLD PLEBUS PART THREE: The last tired episode
When we last saw our hero, he was plummeting from a large embankment. But, due to popular belief that the last episode was too "silly" we will continue with the story even sillier with Plebus confronting Billy Crystal's hairy ball sack, somewhere in Kent, Wa.
"That's funny, Billy Crystal's Hairy Ball Sack, I dreamed I was being silly in a car chase and went over a ravine..."
"No, that's not silly, Plebus. Where are we?"
"I think we're in Kent, Washington."
"Ah, yes, Kent, Washington. Well, I'm going to leave now, seeing as the only point of me being in this scene is to make light of a walking, talking, hairy Billy Crystal's ball sack."
"Good bye, Billy Crystal's Ball Sack, I'll miss you! One day we'll make it, I know it."
"Sure we will, Plebus, sure we will."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that day...
"Yes, I would like an application for employment."
"Um, for what?" The woman holding the screen door open struggled to keep a small dog inside the house. In the background Arnold could hear kids scampering around.
"To be in your family. You see, it's a long story that began a long time ago, and I don't have the time to go into it. But, suffice to say, I am in need of a new family."
"Is this a joke?"
"No joke, bitch, I want to be in your family and I'm gonna start right now by wanting allowance and talking back to you!"
"I'm calling the police, Spot, back in this house!" And with that the door closed and Arnold was left on the porch with his troubles.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The trouble with people is that they just don't do what I want them to."
"And what do you want them to do?"
"I want them to do what I say!" Arnold yelled at the priest behind the partition.
"Well, you can't always have things your way. Aren't you interested in helping out others?"
"Like who? My Mom and Dad who kicked me out with only silverware and a Lexus to hang onto? What kind of crap is that?"
"Son, lower your voice and calm down, this is a place of worship."
"Shit, I thought it was a urinal. OK, goodbye."
Arnold then zipped up and left the confessionary.
Outside, Arnold spotted some kids playing in the yard of the church. "Hey, kids, whatcha playin'?"
"We're playing hide and go seek, wanna play?"
"Sure, I'll be the seeker, K?"
"Sure, Yeah!" All the kids yelled and then went off into the trees as Arnold pretended to count.
"K, I'm coming to find you now!" Arnold yelled as he walked off down the street to Taco Bell.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Uh, yes, Mr. Rupert, you will be staying in Suite 130 with all your requested accommodations."
"Yes, in addition to the other stuff I don't really need, I would also like your finest midget with all the fixings." Arnold said as he took the priest's credit card back and shoved it in his wallet.
"I'm sure something can be arranged. Have a nice stay."
"I'm sure I will....Fucker!" With that Arnold sprinted to the elevator laughing.
On his way down the hall to the suite Arnold came upon a kindly man wearing a suit and tie walking down the other way. "Hello, kind sir, are you the custodian?"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, I thought you were the custodian. Where could I find the custodian?"
"I really don't know. I'm a guest at the hotel."
"Really, they invited you?"
"Umm, no, I'm staying at the hotel."
"Uh huh, likely story. C'mon, Bernard, I know it's you, are you an assassin?"
"Um, sir, I'm late for a dinner, I'm sure the staff can help-" Arnold grabbed the man and turned him around and threw him up against the wall.
"Out with it, Bernard, where's the gun?" Arnold began frisking him.
"My god! Let go of me!"
"Not until you tell me where you've hid my lucky charms!"
"Get your hand out of my pants!"
"What's this? What is this?" Arnold had found something but it wasn't a gun.
"LET GO OF MY PENIS!!!!!!" Arnold let him go, the man brushed himself off.
"Fine, I'll let you go this time, but you better get that thing circumcised."
"I beg your pardon?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arnold retreated to his suite where he spent the night dressing yams in Mr. Potato Head clothing.
Then he quietly died.
When we last saw our hero, he was plummeting from a large embankment. But, due to popular belief that the last episode was too "silly" we will continue with the story even sillier with Plebus confronting Billy Crystal's hairy ball sack, somewhere in Kent, Wa.
"That's funny, Billy Crystal's Hairy Ball Sack, I dreamed I was being silly in a car chase and went over a ravine..."
"No, that's not silly, Plebus. Where are we?"
"I think we're in Kent, Washington."
"Ah, yes, Kent, Washington. Well, I'm going to leave now, seeing as the only point of me being in this scene is to make light of a walking, talking, hairy Billy Crystal's ball sack."
"Good bye, Billy Crystal's Ball Sack, I'll miss you! One day we'll make it, I know it."
"Sure we will, Plebus, sure we will."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that day...
"Yes, I would like an application for employment."
"Um, for what?" The woman holding the screen door open struggled to keep a small dog inside the house. In the background Arnold could hear kids scampering around.
"To be in your family. You see, it's a long story that began a long time ago, and I don't have the time to go into it. But, suffice to say, I am in need of a new family."
"Is this a joke?"
"No joke, bitch, I want to be in your family and I'm gonna start right now by wanting allowance and talking back to you!"
"I'm calling the police, Spot, back in this house!" And with that the door closed and Arnold was left on the porch with his troubles.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The trouble with people is that they just don't do what I want them to."
"And what do you want them to do?"
"I want them to do what I say!" Arnold yelled at the priest behind the partition.
"Well, you can't always have things your way. Aren't you interested in helping out others?"
"Like who? My Mom and Dad who kicked me out with only silverware and a Lexus to hang onto? What kind of crap is that?"
"Son, lower your voice and calm down, this is a place of worship."
"Shit, I thought it was a urinal. OK, goodbye."
Arnold then zipped up and left the confessionary.
Outside, Arnold spotted some kids playing in the yard of the church. "Hey, kids, whatcha playin'?"
"We're playing hide and go seek, wanna play?"
"Sure, I'll be the seeker, K?"
"Sure, Yeah!" All the kids yelled and then went off into the trees as Arnold pretended to count.
"K, I'm coming to find you now!" Arnold yelled as he walked off down the street to Taco Bell.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Uh, yes, Mr. Rupert, you will be staying in Suite 130 with all your requested accommodations."
"Yes, in addition to the other stuff I don't really need, I would also like your finest midget with all the fixings." Arnold said as he took the priest's credit card back and shoved it in his wallet.
"I'm sure something can be arranged. Have a nice stay."
"I'm sure I will....Fucker!" With that Arnold sprinted to the elevator laughing.
On his way down the hall to the suite Arnold came upon a kindly man wearing a suit and tie walking down the other way. "Hello, kind sir, are you the custodian?"
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, I thought you were the custodian. Where could I find the custodian?"
"I really don't know. I'm a guest at the hotel."
"Really, they invited you?"
"Umm, no, I'm staying at the hotel."
"Uh huh, likely story. C'mon, Bernard, I know it's you, are you an assassin?"
"Um, sir, I'm late for a dinner, I'm sure the staff can help-" Arnold grabbed the man and turned him around and threw him up against the wall.
"Out with it, Bernard, where's the gun?" Arnold began frisking him.
"My god! Let go of me!"
"Not until you tell me where you've hid my lucky charms!"
"Get your hand out of my pants!"
"What's this? What is this?" Arnold had found something but it wasn't a gun.
"LET GO OF MY PENIS!!!!!!" Arnold let him go, the man brushed himself off.
"Fine, I'll let you go this time, but you better get that thing circumcised."
"I beg your pardon?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arnold retreated to his suite where he spent the night dressing yams in Mr. Potato Head clothing.
Then he quietly died.
I'm Not Gonna Pay A Lot For This Hooker
I'm Not Gonna Pay A Lot For This Hooker
Hiya, Sam McGee. That's my real name and I take no shame in the transaction we're going to make today.
But, I will warn you – I'm not gonna pay a lot for this hooker.
Nor, sir. I don't believe that just because prostitution is illegal and your competition is no cheaper than you are means that I have to pay any more than your hooker is worth.
That one there. I like her. She has a certain schoolgirl look to her that I like in a hooker. You know what? I think I'm gonna take her! Now, let's suss out the greener sides of this transaction, so to speak.
My friend, Friday, says that you run around 100 an hour. That, my friend, is highway robbery. I'm going to quote you a price here that I have converted from Deutch Marks into US currency for a comparable brothel in Germany.
40 an hour right here. 50 here. And, looksee here: 30 an hour! And look at these women, will you! Well, they're a right bit better than any you have.
Sure, prostitution is legal there, but you could at least be fair with your markup. I mean, if the mean in Germany is 50, then I shouldn't have to pay any more than 70, nay 60.
What's the bail and such on a bust? I bet you beat every wrap with a personal lawyer that costs you 100 every time you get busted. Now, if you get busted even half the time, you're not being fair with the customer.
Also, I'm seeing that most of your employees are over the age of 30. That makes for veteran hookers that I'm sure are cheaper to look after. So, why aren't you passing the savings on to the customer?
Also, most brothels spend 2% of earnings on advertisement. And, let's face it: you're all word of mouth. There's saved money right there. With no stockholders, there's no reason not to give the customer the benefits you reap.
Look, I don't want to apply socialism to your business, but I'm just saying that there's something to be said for the fair and reasonable entrepreneur who goes out of his way to make a relationship with his customer.
You sir, have no respect for me as a customer, much less a person. When I came in you talked to me in the manner of some junky degenerate from the nearest YMCA. I am a man of refined taste, extensive education, and a well-bred lineage. I will no longer let you address me as "Homes." No good man, you will address me as Mr. McGee and nothing but.
Also, there's something to be said about cleanliness being next to godliness; and you, Sir, are a devil of rubbish. Look at these filthy environs! I mean, really!
Well, I've prattled on enough. So, 60 an hour – do we have a deal, good man?
Very good, very good, but I'm paying the young lady to put a boot up my arse, yours will do no – AAAAAHHHHHH!
Hiya, Sam McGee. That's my real name and I take no shame in the transaction we're going to make today.
But, I will warn you – I'm not gonna pay a lot for this hooker.
Nor, sir. I don't believe that just because prostitution is illegal and your competition is no cheaper than you are means that I have to pay any more than your hooker is worth.
That one there. I like her. She has a certain schoolgirl look to her that I like in a hooker. You know what? I think I'm gonna take her! Now, let's suss out the greener sides of this transaction, so to speak.
My friend, Friday, says that you run around 100 an hour. That, my friend, is highway robbery. I'm going to quote you a price here that I have converted from Deutch Marks into US currency for a comparable brothel in Germany.
40 an hour right here. 50 here. And, looksee here: 30 an hour! And look at these women, will you! Well, they're a right bit better than any you have.
Sure, prostitution is legal there, but you could at least be fair with your markup. I mean, if the mean in Germany is 50, then I shouldn't have to pay any more than 70, nay 60.
What's the bail and such on a bust? I bet you beat every wrap with a personal lawyer that costs you 100 every time you get busted. Now, if you get busted even half the time, you're not being fair with the customer.
Also, I'm seeing that most of your employees are over the age of 30. That makes for veteran hookers that I'm sure are cheaper to look after. So, why aren't you passing the savings on to the customer?
Also, most brothels spend 2% of earnings on advertisement. And, let's face it: you're all word of mouth. There's saved money right there. With no stockholders, there's no reason not to give the customer the benefits you reap.
Look, I don't want to apply socialism to your business, but I'm just saying that there's something to be said for the fair and reasonable entrepreneur who goes out of his way to make a relationship with his customer.
You sir, have no respect for me as a customer, much less a person. When I came in you talked to me in the manner of some junky degenerate from the nearest YMCA. I am a man of refined taste, extensive education, and a well-bred lineage. I will no longer let you address me as "Homes." No good man, you will address me as Mr. McGee and nothing but.
Also, there's something to be said about cleanliness being next to godliness; and you, Sir, are a devil of rubbish. Look at these filthy environs! I mean, really!
Well, I've prattled on enough. So, 60 an hour – do we have a deal, good man?
Very good, very good, but I'm paying the young lady to put a boot up my arse, yours will do no – AAAAAHHHHHH!
Vegas Part Three
Vegas Part II
We change tense as I lost the capability to form words somewhere above Utah.
We're now relying on my memory which is working through neurons soiled by the events in Vegas evermore.
Boredom began to set in on the plane and Scott and I ordered some good old orange juice and mixed in strawberry vodka.
This did little to nothing to sate the ever growing need to not be sitting down. I decided it was time for a good game.
After nine liver insertions, I decided hangman was the only game I could remember and play with any knowledge of the rules.
I began by passing a notebook to Shanna and Scott with such phrases as "We're all gonna die" hiding in the blanks.
Shanna and Scott soon bored me with their lack of putting letters and phrases together and I moved onto the lesbian soccer team sitting next to me.
Yes, and no. It is true that a lesbian soccer team was sitting next to me, but not in the porno sense. No, these lesbians were REAL lesbians; not the girls who make out in a bar to get attention – these were fer real carpet munchers. With that said, it was with great trepidation that I let them join in on the fun. Fer real lesbians have no time for jokes and gimcracks. No, fer real lesbians are all about seriously thinking about ball bearings and soccer. Which is fine if you're passing them a copy of Soldier of Fortune, but when it's a game of hangman on a plane with a drunk, there's a good chance you're going to get your ass beat down.
But, it was with the grace of God that these fer real lesbians were real sports. And what wordsmiths! These women got the game going to the point that I began handing out prizes of vodka.
But, alas, I ran short on vodka and the game had to be stopped.
I put on my headphones and listened to "I'm Afraid of Americans" while looking around the plane paranoid.
As we landed the plane became something like a school bus on the way to a fudge factory. Cat calls and hollers of "Vegas, baby!" began reverberating throughout the plane and I shuddered to think of what kind of trouble I would soon be in; what with these types of maniacs walking the streets demanding fun.
No one should demand fun, and Vegas caters to that idea. Fun is not to be had, fun is to be earned – that's why they hung Jesus up so long ago.
Departing the plane I immediately heard the bells and whistles of manic money machines clinking Medicaid away from the elderly and infirm.
It took me nearly three minutes to get out the door for a smoke.
Outside the air felt like the bottom of a pressure cooker. I lit my smoke by simply waving it in the air.
Inside, I assigned Scott and his pregnant girlfriend the task of retrieving my bags. I had a task at hand, and that task was to shove as much money as I could into the dollar machine in hopes of a jackpot.
There's something that takes over you after about nine minutes of playing the machines. This something is a purely illogical need to get rid of all your money, like some crazy minimalist.
It took Scott and Shanna three minutes of standing beside me sulking before I could be ripped from the maw of rotating dollar signs. I quickly thank them for their help and took my baggage outside and thought about just who I thought I was throwing so much money at a goddamn machine. A good Christian doesn't play these kind of games with money that could be spent on parkas for homeless albinos in Kentucky.
No, only a heathen would attempt to play God with money and simply leave it to chance. Sure, maybe I could have won a million dollars and bought a million parkas, but, no that would be a risk I'm not about to make for my hypothetical, probably never going to happen contribution to Kentucky albinos.
After endless sallies through hotel pickup, we found the first man we would not tip on this adventure. I'd like to think his name was Ed, but I really have no idea. He was a kind man who helped us with our bags and...wait, no, he was a bastard in a real hurry. Cracked up and moody was the state of our driver. He wanted nothing more than to pick us up, drop us off and go do it all over again. He had no time for the card tricks I wanted to show him, the books I wanted to discuss, the love stories I have acquired from endless hours at the zoo.
At the hotel that ugly SPEND YOUR MONEY feeling came over me and I had to down a beer to make it go away. Meanwhile, Scott checked us in and I smoked another cigarette, absently wondering whether you could still smoke in Vegas.
Upstairs we unpacked. The first thing on the trip to piss me off was the refrigerator. Somehow the refrigerator had been stolen! I grabbed Scott by the shirt and twisted. "WHO TOOK OUR FRIDGE!!!!"
I was positive the Bush administration was on to us and had devised a plan to sap me of cold beverages....but, no, it wasn't the Bush administration at all. It was the kind folks at the Flamingo hotel that decided, without notifying me, that refrigerators were not required for the pursuit of fun in Vegas.
But, of course, a safe, blowdryer, and conditioning shampoo were.
BASTARDS!
Where was I to stow the beer I would buy later that evening? What of the leftovers from many a pizza? And where would I place the ice sculpture I planned on stealing from the wedding?
We change tense as I lost the capability to form words somewhere above Utah.
We're now relying on my memory which is working through neurons soiled by the events in Vegas evermore.
Boredom began to set in on the plane and Scott and I ordered some good old orange juice and mixed in strawberry vodka.
This did little to nothing to sate the ever growing need to not be sitting down. I decided it was time for a good game.
After nine liver insertions, I decided hangman was the only game I could remember and play with any knowledge of the rules.
I began by passing a notebook to Shanna and Scott with such phrases as "We're all gonna die" hiding in the blanks.
Shanna and Scott soon bored me with their lack of putting letters and phrases together and I moved onto the lesbian soccer team sitting next to me.
Yes, and no. It is true that a lesbian soccer team was sitting next to me, but not in the porno sense. No, these lesbians were REAL lesbians; not the girls who make out in a bar to get attention – these were fer real carpet munchers. With that said, it was with great trepidation that I let them join in on the fun. Fer real lesbians have no time for jokes and gimcracks. No, fer real lesbians are all about seriously thinking about ball bearings and soccer. Which is fine if you're passing them a copy of Soldier of Fortune, but when it's a game of hangman on a plane with a drunk, there's a good chance you're going to get your ass beat down.
But, it was with the grace of God that these fer real lesbians were real sports. And what wordsmiths! These women got the game going to the point that I began handing out prizes of vodka.
But, alas, I ran short on vodka and the game had to be stopped.
I put on my headphones and listened to "I'm Afraid of Americans" while looking around the plane paranoid.
As we landed the plane became something like a school bus on the way to a fudge factory. Cat calls and hollers of "Vegas, baby!" began reverberating throughout the plane and I shuddered to think of what kind of trouble I would soon be in; what with these types of maniacs walking the streets demanding fun.
No one should demand fun, and Vegas caters to that idea. Fun is not to be had, fun is to be earned – that's why they hung Jesus up so long ago.
Departing the plane I immediately heard the bells and whistles of manic money machines clinking Medicaid away from the elderly and infirm.
It took me nearly three minutes to get out the door for a smoke.
Outside the air felt like the bottom of a pressure cooker. I lit my smoke by simply waving it in the air.
Inside, I assigned Scott and his pregnant girlfriend the task of retrieving my bags. I had a task at hand, and that task was to shove as much money as I could into the dollar machine in hopes of a jackpot.
There's something that takes over you after about nine minutes of playing the machines. This something is a purely illogical need to get rid of all your money, like some crazy minimalist.
It took Scott and Shanna three minutes of standing beside me sulking before I could be ripped from the maw of rotating dollar signs. I quickly thank them for their help and took my baggage outside and thought about just who I thought I was throwing so much money at a goddamn machine. A good Christian doesn't play these kind of games with money that could be spent on parkas for homeless albinos in Kentucky.
No, only a heathen would attempt to play God with money and simply leave it to chance. Sure, maybe I could have won a million dollars and bought a million parkas, but, no that would be a risk I'm not about to make for my hypothetical, probably never going to happen contribution to Kentucky albinos.
After endless sallies through hotel pickup, we found the first man we would not tip on this adventure. I'd like to think his name was Ed, but I really have no idea. He was a kind man who helped us with our bags and...wait, no, he was a bastard in a real hurry. Cracked up and moody was the state of our driver. He wanted nothing more than to pick us up, drop us off and go do it all over again. He had no time for the card tricks I wanted to show him, the books I wanted to discuss, the love stories I have acquired from endless hours at the zoo.
At the hotel that ugly SPEND YOUR MONEY feeling came over me and I had to down a beer to make it go away. Meanwhile, Scott checked us in and I smoked another cigarette, absently wondering whether you could still smoke in Vegas.
Upstairs we unpacked. The first thing on the trip to piss me off was the refrigerator. Somehow the refrigerator had been stolen! I grabbed Scott by the shirt and twisted. "WHO TOOK OUR FRIDGE!!!!"
I was positive the Bush administration was on to us and had devised a plan to sap me of cold beverages....but, no, it wasn't the Bush administration at all. It was the kind folks at the Flamingo hotel that decided, without notifying me, that refrigerators were not required for the pursuit of fun in Vegas.
But, of course, a safe, blowdryer, and conditioning shampoo were.
BASTARDS!
Where was I to stow the beer I would buy later that evening? What of the leftovers from many a pizza? And where would I place the ice sculpture I planned on stealing from the wedding?
French Tickler Notion of Peace
Transcript of New Rove Leak
Matthew Cooper: So, you're uh,
Karl Rove: Yes.
MC: So, about the Plame case. What do you –
KR: Look, the case is under investigation and I have no more to say about the allegations.
MC: Do you believe you're innocent?
KR: Look, we can't...I can't discuss this matter at this time. You see?
MC: Alright, but...Time –
KR: Yes?
MC: Time is coming down on me for a story and –
KR: Well, look if you want a story you're going to have to assure me that you –
MC: Yes?
KR: ..assurances that you won't disclose your sources.
MC: I can't. If I put you on record as an anonymous source, I could be heading to the grand jury again.
KR: Then, no dice.
MC: Look, can't you just disclose one more name?
KR: It's not going to happen.
MC: Look, what if we use Pig Latin?
KR: You mean, like Arlkay Overay?
MC: Bingo.
KR: Well, now, that's different. Alright. It seems that this man in Gotham –
MC: Right. Go on.
KR: See, he's trying to say that I may have leaked a CIA agent's name to you or Bob Novak and let's just say –
MC: Right?
KR: Let's just say there's a man who enjoys armed robbery and jokes that would be very interested in knowing this man in Gotham's identity.
MC: Ha, I see where you're going, Arlkay.
KR: Who?
MC: Remember, the Pig Latin?
KR: Oh, right Atthewmay Oopercay.
MC: No, we can use my name. I'm writing the story.
KR: Oh, OK. So, where were we?
MC: We were covering up your name, so that you could disclose the identity of a Super Hero who has evidence that you disclosed the identity of a CIA agent so that you could get her husband back for testifying that you took us into war for phony reasons and now you're going to disclose the Super Hero's name in order to get him back for – wait, let me look at my notes again.
KR: It's Batman.
MC: What?
KR: Batman. Batman is Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne is Batman. There, I probably shouldn't have told you that.
MC: He's a Super Hero, he's not protected by the law that –
KR: Oh, so, can we use my real name? I want Bruce to know never to fuck with me again.
MC: No problem, anything else?
KR: Um, Superman is Clark Kent, Catwoman is Eartha Kitt and –
MC: Eartha Kitt is an actress, she played Catwoman, Catwoman is –
KR: Who?! TELL ME WHO CATWOMAN IS! She's totally giving Condoleeza a hard time.
MC: Did you know that I killed Jimmy Hoffa?
KR: Ha, I bet you didn't know I poisoned JFK before anyone even had the chance to shoot him.
MC: Jack the Ripper –
KR: Wait, I know that one – Queen Elizabeth. That's always a shocker.
MC: Yeah, and did you know Bill Clinton –
KR: Was really Al Sharpton? Yeah, I knew that one.
MC: Of course George W. is –
KR: A Hitler clone? Yeah, this is awesome.
MC: And you're –
KR: The Antichrist!
MC: HA! I didn't know that one! Got ya!
KR: FORSHIZM
Matthew Cooper: So, you're uh,
Karl Rove: Yes.
MC: So, about the Plame case. What do you –
KR: Look, the case is under investigation and I have no more to say about the allegations.
MC: Do you believe you're innocent?
KR: Look, we can't...I can't discuss this matter at this time. You see?
MC: Alright, but...Time –
KR: Yes?
MC: Time is coming down on me for a story and –
KR: Well, look if you want a story you're going to have to assure me that you –
MC: Yes?
KR: ..assurances that you won't disclose your sources.
MC: I can't. If I put you on record as an anonymous source, I could be heading to the grand jury again.
KR: Then, no dice.
MC: Look, can't you just disclose one more name?
KR: It's not going to happen.
MC: Look, what if we use Pig Latin?
KR: You mean, like Arlkay Overay?
MC: Bingo.
KR: Well, now, that's different. Alright. It seems that this man in Gotham –
MC: Right. Go on.
KR: See, he's trying to say that I may have leaked a CIA agent's name to you or Bob Novak and let's just say –
MC: Right?
KR: Let's just say there's a man who enjoys armed robbery and jokes that would be very interested in knowing this man in Gotham's identity.
MC: Ha, I see where you're going, Arlkay.
KR: Who?
MC: Remember, the Pig Latin?
KR: Oh, right Atthewmay Oopercay.
MC: No, we can use my name. I'm writing the story.
KR: Oh, OK. So, where were we?
MC: We were covering up your name, so that you could disclose the identity of a Super Hero who has evidence that you disclosed the identity of a CIA agent so that you could get her husband back for testifying that you took us into war for phony reasons and now you're going to disclose the Super Hero's name in order to get him back for – wait, let me look at my notes again.
KR: It's Batman.
MC: What?
KR: Batman. Batman is Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne is Batman. There, I probably shouldn't have told you that.
MC: He's a Super Hero, he's not protected by the law that –
KR: Oh, so, can we use my real name? I want Bruce to know never to fuck with me again.
MC: No problem, anything else?
KR: Um, Superman is Clark Kent, Catwoman is Eartha Kitt and –
MC: Eartha Kitt is an actress, she played Catwoman, Catwoman is –
KR: Who?! TELL ME WHO CATWOMAN IS! She's totally giving Condoleeza a hard time.
MC: Did you know that I killed Jimmy Hoffa?
KR: Ha, I bet you didn't know I poisoned JFK before anyone even had the chance to shoot him.
MC: Jack the Ripper –
KR: Wait, I know that one – Queen Elizabeth. That's always a shocker.
MC: Yeah, and did you know Bill Clinton –
KR: Was really Al Sharpton? Yeah, I knew that one.
MC: Of course George W. is –
KR: A Hitler clone? Yeah, this is awesome.
MC: And you're –
KR: The Antichrist!
MC: HA! I didn't know that one! Got ya!
KR: FORSHIZM
Edgar Allen Cheeseburger
p>Vegas 3
"NO TAKEOUT OMELET!"
- Waiter at Lyndies
After finding we had no fridge, I spent nine minutes reading Revelations in the bathroom. Yes, the seven headed dragons, when they come, will make a stop at the Flamingo for the suffering they have caused me.
Finding myself coming down from the alcohol, I demanded that we meet Josh and Monica down at what would be the most annoying bar in Vegas.
It was called the Island or something geographical like that. Apparently the tropical theme got mixed up with South America in general and Marta from Scarface (scary looking chick on bed with Uzi) worked (for lack of a better word) there.
Marta was great at taking nine hours to deliver a drink and give you that phony small talk for a tip that only gorgeous blondes can get away with.
"How is your stay? Win any money?" This is up there with those fucks who say "ahhhh, another Monday" in the elevator at work.
Down at the Island we met up with the soon to be wed and Monica's (forgot relationship) and her husband.
I have absolutely no clue what we talked about, but I remember ordering a drink....then another....then it was on to Margaritaville.
Which brings me to my
JIMMY BUFFET STORY
So, my brother-in-law's half-sister's hus.....so, this one dude knows this one guy who works at the Metropolitan Grill in Seattle. Apparently, Buffet came in and got food and then ordered a margarita. But, not just any margarita, he ordered the one that was mixed with his PERSONAL mixing shit.
What an ass.
So, the waiter explains that they don't have it (like they probably don't cook pasta dishes with Newman's Own) and Buffet flips a burger and rages at the staff. Then, he leaves without paying for his meal.
Well, I guess the owner's called up Buffet's handlers and told them he's banned from the restaurant.
This story would make more sense if Buffet was in a Taco Bell, but anyway.
That's my Jimmy Buffet story.
Back to Vegas.
Margaritaville is a Jimmy Buffet-themed restaurant/bar/nightclub. Let me say that one thing again: Jimmy Buffet-themed.
WTF?
Alright.
So, we got a table and began to drink. Somewhere along the way we lost track of the bill and I have a feeling Scott and I purchased everyone's drinks numerous times.
So, Monica, Josh, Cori, one dude: please send your money to Matt Eckert at 7431 Evergreen Terrace with a self addressed envelope – I'll send you a recipe.
Boredom.
Anyway. Soon, dancing ensued. I'm not much of a dancer, but felt that I should somehow entertain Monica and Josh, rather than stare blankly in an alcoholic stupor like usual.
So, I got up and pretty much pretended I was a member of AC/DC at some benefit for three-headed toad monkeys. You know, the jumping up and down, swaggering, pointing at each member of the dancing floor and shouting "PARTY" like an overweight Sammy Hagar.
I have a feeling the joke was lost on most, but not I or my comrades.
This lasted a couple of minutes as three consecutives heart attacks hit me like hot coals and Monica rushed me to our table and began feeding me rum until I stopped vomiting blood.
Some other stuff happened that I don't remember and ....oh, yeah, and then this asshole DJ announced a "rump shaking" contest. Apparently, this was gender biased cuz he totally gave me the "not you, sir" brush off when I tried to hobble all 200 pounds of my nasty visage onto the stage.
BASTARD!
Hey, DJ-Bastard – I got your number, punk!
Leaving the club, we decided to venture.......Christ, I don't know.... but, we pretty much just walked around Vegas where I (literally) went up to everyone we passed on the street and said "WE'RE IN VEGAS, BABY!" or "HOW ABOUT VEGAS?!" or "WHERE"S LOST VEGAS FROM HERE?!" and other asinine remarks that scared the piss out of people from all nations.
Towards the end of my memories of that debacle I ran into a Kiwi from Issaquah.
WTF?
They were looking for a club and I noticed the dude had an accent and asked where he was from.
"Issaquah."
Small world?
No, no, not at all.
This only proves that Issaquah (small town outside of Seattle) is so fucked that it holds the world's population in its Mayberry -sized township.
I lived there and it takes (literally) a half hour to drive two blocks in the fucking traffic.
Fucking Issaquah, who needs it.
More stuff happened that I forget and I found myself stumbling towards the diner in the Flamingo.
I had a mission to eat an omelet and come hell or a stubborn waiter, I was going to....eat a cheeseburger in a bathroom.
Yes. I sat myself down in the diner and figured out two things: I needed to eat and I needed to pass out. Well, Vegas is Vegas and I figured passing out in a restaurant is a sure way to end up on CSI or whatever that dumb ass show is.
So, I nixed the idea of actually eating IN the diner for fear I'd pass out, only to be wheeled away to the coroner – my heart stops for 50 minutes around four every morning.
So, I grabbed a menu and ordered a "beer and an omelet – to go."
"NO OMELET TO GO! YOU ORDER OFF TAKE OUT MENU!"
WTF?
So, for those of you looking for take-out in the Flamingo Lyndies
WAIT – I JUST HAVE TO COMMENT REAL QUICK – guy who sits behind me just licked his fingers and combed his hair with them in the window. Lord, by and by make it stop.
Back to our story: I'll let you know this – you can order buffalo wings, nachos, and potato skins to go. But, you CANNOT order an omelet to go. The reason? Fuck if I know.
So, I ordered a burger, drank the beer and stumbled to the elevators where a thought dawned on me – where the hell am I going to eat?
Scott and Shanna were asleep, meaning the lights were out and such. Well, they were being sports and not having sex while I was in the room, so I didn't want to give any ill will by waking them up.....what was a fat ass with a burger and a diseased liver to do?
Normally, I would turn on the TV and eat on the bed...but, now?
I couldn't even turn on a light.
So – you guessed it, I committed suicide.
No, I ate in the bathroom. It was the only place where I would not disturb them...and it had lighting.
So, there I was at four in the morning, staring at my reflection in the mirror as I ate a burger. By the time I ate the pickle the absurdity of the situation racked me with fits of laughing that I quickly stifled with a handful of fries.
Throwing the empty burger tray into the closet, I collapsed on my bed and woke five hours later.
"NO TAKEOUT OMELET!"
- Waiter at Lyndies
After finding we had no fridge, I spent nine minutes reading Revelations in the bathroom. Yes, the seven headed dragons, when they come, will make a stop at the Flamingo for the suffering they have caused me.
Finding myself coming down from the alcohol, I demanded that we meet Josh and Monica down at what would be the most annoying bar in Vegas.
It was called the Island or something geographical like that. Apparently the tropical theme got mixed up with South America in general and Marta from Scarface (scary looking chick on bed with Uzi) worked (for lack of a better word) there.
Marta was great at taking nine hours to deliver a drink and give you that phony small talk for a tip that only gorgeous blondes can get away with.
"How is your stay? Win any money?" This is up there with those fucks who say "ahhhh, another Monday" in the elevator at work.
Down at the Island we met up with the soon to be wed and Monica's (forgot relationship) and her husband.
I have absolutely no clue what we talked about, but I remember ordering a drink....then another....then it was on to Margaritaville.
Which brings me to my
JIMMY BUFFET STORY
So, my brother-in-law's half-sister's hus.....so, this one dude knows this one guy who works at the Metropolitan Grill in Seattle. Apparently, Buffet came in and got food and then ordered a margarita. But, not just any margarita, he ordered the one that was mixed with his PERSONAL mixing shit.
What an ass.
So, the waiter explains that they don't have it (like they probably don't cook pasta dishes with Newman's Own) and Buffet flips a burger and rages at the staff. Then, he leaves without paying for his meal.
Well, I guess the owner's called up Buffet's handlers and told them he's banned from the restaurant.
This story would make more sense if Buffet was in a Taco Bell, but anyway.
That's my Jimmy Buffet story.
Back to Vegas.
Margaritaville is a Jimmy Buffet-themed restaurant/bar/nightclub. Let me say that one thing again: Jimmy Buffet-themed.
WTF?
Alright.
So, we got a table and began to drink. Somewhere along the way we lost track of the bill and I have a feeling Scott and I purchased everyone's drinks numerous times.
So, Monica, Josh, Cori, one dude: please send your money to Matt Eckert at 7431 Evergreen Terrace with a self addressed envelope – I'll send you a recipe.
Boredom.
Anyway. Soon, dancing ensued. I'm not much of a dancer, but felt that I should somehow entertain Monica and Josh, rather than stare blankly in an alcoholic stupor like usual.
So, I got up and pretty much pretended I was a member of AC/DC at some benefit for three-headed toad monkeys. You know, the jumping up and down, swaggering, pointing at each member of the dancing floor and shouting "PARTY" like an overweight Sammy Hagar.
I have a feeling the joke was lost on most, but not I or my comrades.
This lasted a couple of minutes as three consecutives heart attacks hit me like hot coals and Monica rushed me to our table and began feeding me rum until I stopped vomiting blood.
Some other stuff happened that I don't remember and ....oh, yeah, and then this asshole DJ announced a "rump shaking" contest. Apparently, this was gender biased cuz he totally gave me the "not you, sir" brush off when I tried to hobble all 200 pounds of my nasty visage onto the stage.
BASTARD!
Hey, DJ-Bastard – I got your number, punk!
Leaving the club, we decided to venture.......Christ, I don't know.... but, we pretty much just walked around Vegas where I (literally) went up to everyone we passed on the street and said "WE'RE IN VEGAS, BABY!" or "HOW ABOUT VEGAS?!" or "WHERE"S LOST VEGAS FROM HERE?!" and other asinine remarks that scared the piss out of people from all nations.
Towards the end of my memories of that debacle I ran into a Kiwi from Issaquah.
WTF?
They were looking for a club and I noticed the dude had an accent and asked where he was from.
"Issaquah."
Small world?
No, no, not at all.
This only proves that Issaquah (small town outside of Seattle) is so fucked that it holds the world's population in its Mayberry -sized township.
I lived there and it takes (literally) a half hour to drive two blocks in the fucking traffic.
Fucking Issaquah, who needs it.
More stuff happened that I forget and I found myself stumbling towards the diner in the Flamingo.
I had a mission to eat an omelet and come hell or a stubborn waiter, I was going to....eat a cheeseburger in a bathroom.
Yes. I sat myself down in the diner and figured out two things: I needed to eat and I needed to pass out. Well, Vegas is Vegas and I figured passing out in a restaurant is a sure way to end up on CSI or whatever that dumb ass show is.
So, I nixed the idea of actually eating IN the diner for fear I'd pass out, only to be wheeled away to the coroner – my heart stops for 50 minutes around four every morning.
So, I grabbed a menu and ordered a "beer and an omelet – to go."
"NO OMELET TO GO! YOU ORDER OFF TAKE OUT MENU!"
WTF?
So, for those of you looking for take-out in the Flamingo Lyndies
WAIT – I JUST HAVE TO COMMENT REAL QUICK – guy who sits behind me just licked his fingers and combed his hair with them in the window. Lord, by and by make it stop.
Back to our story: I'll let you know this – you can order buffalo wings, nachos, and potato skins to go. But, you CANNOT order an omelet to go. The reason? Fuck if I know.
So, I ordered a burger, drank the beer and stumbled to the elevators where a thought dawned on me – where the hell am I going to eat?
Scott and Shanna were asleep, meaning the lights were out and such. Well, they were being sports and not having sex while I was in the room, so I didn't want to give any ill will by waking them up.....what was a fat ass with a burger and a diseased liver to do?
Normally, I would turn on the TV and eat on the bed...but, now?
I couldn't even turn on a light.
So – you guessed it, I committed suicide.
No, I ate in the bathroom. It was the only place where I would not disturb them...and it had lighting.
So, there I was at four in the morning, staring at my reflection in the mirror as I ate a burger. By the time I ate the pickle the absurdity of the situation racked me with fits of laughing that I quickly stifled with a handful of fries.
Throwing the empty burger tray into the closet, I collapsed on my bed and woke five hours later.
New Harry Potter Movie Spoiler
The New Harry Potter Book: Spoiler
So, as many of you know, the new Harry Potter book has been released. And, just as promised, Rowling has killed off a main character.
So, I'm sure many of you have Googled "Character Killed in Harry Potter Book" and have come to this site.
Well, let me warn those that haven't: I will be revealing the character in the paragraphs below. If you plan on reading the book and would rather not know the ending – STOP READING.
With that in mind, I would like to say that I'm a HUGE fan of the Potter books and I'm only revealing the character here, in an appropriate way, to dissuade those sites that give away the ending to screw over the reader. I think that is wrong and the magic that is Harry Potter gets spoiled over and over again by nogoodniks with nothing better to do than to spoil the dreams and excitement of children everywhere – including those of us who are children at heart.
Like me.
So, with no further introduction, the character that is killed in the newest Harry Potter book is:
Scotty.
That's right. We've loved Scotty's adorable Scottish voice and the catch phrase associated with him (Beam me up, Scotty) for years. But, that is to be no more.
When we first came upon Scotty he was the engineer of the Enterprise on a mission to seek out new galaxies and explore them. But, later, after a beaming accident, arrived in the classic Potter tales as the lovable "Scotty."
Sure, the name was the same, but Scotty's character drastically changed as he was now teaching engineering to Harry Potter and his magical friends.
We shared a lot of laughs with Scotty, like the time he beamed Harry onto Star Trek: Voyager and Harry had to battle the Borg with his magic wand. Or the time Harry turned Scotty into a Volkswagen.
Well, the laughs are over and you have J.K. Rowling to blame.
I've enjoyed her work for years, but to kill off Scotty in such a sad way: Pneumonia and Alzheimer's.
It's unacceptable. Scotty deserved better.
At the end the book Harry puts it best when he says "Maybe now God will beam Scotty up, but it’s a crime that Scotty wasn't able to remember how much we loved him as he passed on. Damn you GOD!"
And, of course, the God in this instance is the author J.K. Rowling.
Would I go as far as advocating the stoning of Rowling?
You bet.
It's a sad day when Scotty is dead and the author replaces him with a conservative justice.
That's right. To add insult to injury, Rowling has replaced the engineering instructor with John Roberts.
In the final paragraph of the book, John promises Harry that he will allow Harry to get Hermione and abortion as long as he quits having gay sex with Gilderoy.
Roberts goes on to rule that candy will no longer be allowed at the school and that Harry can no longer turn stem cells into dragons.
It's a sad day in Pottersville.
So, as many of you know, the new Harry Potter book has been released. And, just as promised, Rowling has killed off a main character.
So, I'm sure many of you have Googled "Character Killed in Harry Potter Book" and have come to this site.
Well, let me warn those that haven't: I will be revealing the character in the paragraphs below. If you plan on reading the book and would rather not know the ending – STOP READING.
With that in mind, I would like to say that I'm a HUGE fan of the Potter books and I'm only revealing the character here, in an appropriate way, to dissuade those sites that give away the ending to screw over the reader. I think that is wrong and the magic that is Harry Potter gets spoiled over and over again by nogoodniks with nothing better to do than to spoil the dreams and excitement of children everywhere – including those of us who are children at heart.
Like me.
So, with no further introduction, the character that is killed in the newest Harry Potter book is:
Scotty.
That's right. We've loved Scotty's adorable Scottish voice and the catch phrase associated with him (Beam me up, Scotty) for years. But, that is to be no more.
When we first came upon Scotty he was the engineer of the Enterprise on a mission to seek out new galaxies and explore them. But, later, after a beaming accident, arrived in the classic Potter tales as the lovable "Scotty."
Sure, the name was the same, but Scotty's character drastically changed as he was now teaching engineering to Harry Potter and his magical friends.
We shared a lot of laughs with Scotty, like the time he beamed Harry onto Star Trek: Voyager and Harry had to battle the Borg with his magic wand. Or the time Harry turned Scotty into a Volkswagen.
Well, the laughs are over and you have J.K. Rowling to blame.
I've enjoyed her work for years, but to kill off Scotty in such a sad way: Pneumonia and Alzheimer's.
It's unacceptable. Scotty deserved better.
At the end the book Harry puts it best when he says "Maybe now God will beam Scotty up, but it’s a crime that Scotty wasn't able to remember how much we loved him as he passed on. Damn you GOD!"
And, of course, the God in this instance is the author J.K. Rowling.
Would I go as far as advocating the stoning of Rowling?
You bet.
It's a sad day when Scotty is dead and the author replaces him with a conservative justice.
That's right. To add insult to injury, Rowling has replaced the engineering instructor with John Roberts.
In the final paragraph of the book, John promises Harry that he will allow Harry to get Hermione and abortion as long as he quits having gay sex with Gilderoy.
Roberts goes on to rule that candy will no longer be allowed at the school and that Harry can no longer turn stem cells into dragons.
It's a sad day in Pottersville.
Interdimensionalluggage
Pandemonium
To: All Home and Regional Office employees
From: (NAME WITHHELD)
As you may be aware, former President Bill Clinton will be in Issaquah on June 30 to sign his new book for our members.
We really don’t know what to expect but his other book signings have had crowds arriving 15 hours prior to his arrival. Due to the short amount of time he will spend here, it is estimated that he will be able to sign about 1,500 books. We expect the crowd to be in excess of 2,000 people and I’m sure that some of our members will be disappointed.
NAME WITHHELD and her staff have been asked for signed copies of his book by our employees here at Central as well as in some regions. We will not be able to accommodate those requests because of the limited amount of signed books available.
I hope that you understand that it is our goal to take care of our members first and that we are sorry that we can’t accommodate these requests.
To: All Home and Regional Office employees
From: (NAME WITHHELD)
As you may be aware, former President Bill Clinton will be in Issaquah on June 30 to sign his new book for our members.
We really don’t know what to expect but his other book signings have had crowds arriving 15 hours prior to his arrival. Due to the short amount of time he will spend here, it is estimated that he will be able to sign about 1,500 books. We expect the crowd to be in excess of 2,000 people and I’m sure that some of our members will be disappointed.
NAME WITHHELD and her staff have been asked for signed copies of his book by our employees here at Central as well as in some regions. We will not be able to accommodate those requests because of the limited amount of signed books available.
I hope that you understand that it is our goal to take care of our members first and that we are sorry that we can’t accommodate these requests.
The Willy Wonka Movie Kinda Sucks
The Willy Wonka Movie Kinda Blows
So, maybe I just expected too much from Burton and Depp. I respect their work a lot, barring Batman and 21 Jump Street.
With that in mind, maybe I did the opposite of Batman Begins and War of the Worlds: I expected it to be good and that made it worse.
Maybe. Also, I'm a fan of the original Wonka and the new one couldn't hold a candle to it. Not only that, the story is different in all the right places to make it suck.
Like, you know how Wonka acts like a schizophrenic in the first one, but turns out to be a normal guy who just wanted to be sure of Charlie?
Not in this one. Wonka is a schizophrenic and has no redeeming qualities at all. And he's not even schizophrenic in a creepy Marilyn Manson way; he's schizophrenic in a "that kid who used to eat paste in third grade" way. It's not creepy at all. He comes off as a reject.
Also, where's Slugworth? He's in it for three minutes and he's not tricking anyone or testing anyone's faith – he's just ripping off secret recipes like Nabisco.
It's fucking lame. I was thoroughly disappointed.
Oh, and the Oompas are stupid. Their songs aren't creepy and weird, they're attempts at joking around with pop music. I hate jokes on pop culture; pop culture is a joke. That's why the Austin Powers movies don't hold up.
Oh, fuck it. It was only an hour and 45 mins. So, you know – it was that or drinking a beer and staring at the TV.
The New Guy Who Sits Behind Me Is Cool, But Enough with the Voices
K, so, I don't really have a problem with people making the occasional sexist, racist, etc. jokes; but any form of joke gets old real quick.
So, the New Guy Who Sits Behind Me does voices. He's pretty good at it. BUT: Most of them are ethnic voices. Now, the guy's half Thai and half White – but he just looks white. You would never know he had any Asian blood in him unless you asked.
Now then, it's true, and we can all admit it: for better or for worse it's totally acceptable to get away with ethnic jokes if you're ethnic, but if you're white (or appear to be white) you better bite your tongue. So, if you're Mexican and you're making jokes about Blacks, you'll get away with it. Now, if you're White, it's a totally different story.
So, I have a white-appearing coworker who has about five episodes a day where he'll launch into an Apu, Sambo, or Irving the Jew voice.
He's not even that shy about it. I'm sure people can hear him.
What's worse is that we live in 2005 America and half of the IS department is East Indian. The second he launches into the Apu voice I feel like some Indian chick is crying in the cubicle next to us.
I don't know. It's odd and I'm sure something will come down eventually, but you never know.
Well, that's it.
Pleace
So, maybe I just expected too much from Burton and Depp. I respect their work a lot, barring Batman and 21 Jump Street.
With that in mind, maybe I did the opposite of Batman Begins and War of the Worlds: I expected it to be good and that made it worse.
Maybe. Also, I'm a fan of the original Wonka and the new one couldn't hold a candle to it. Not only that, the story is different in all the right places to make it suck.
Like, you know how Wonka acts like a schizophrenic in the first one, but turns out to be a normal guy who just wanted to be sure of Charlie?
Not in this one. Wonka is a schizophrenic and has no redeeming qualities at all. And he's not even schizophrenic in a creepy Marilyn Manson way; he's schizophrenic in a "that kid who used to eat paste in third grade" way. It's not creepy at all. He comes off as a reject.
Also, where's Slugworth? He's in it for three minutes and he's not tricking anyone or testing anyone's faith – he's just ripping off secret recipes like Nabisco.
It's fucking lame. I was thoroughly disappointed.
Oh, and the Oompas are stupid. Their songs aren't creepy and weird, they're attempts at joking around with pop music. I hate jokes on pop culture; pop culture is a joke. That's why the Austin Powers movies don't hold up.
Oh, fuck it. It was only an hour and 45 mins. So, you know – it was that or drinking a beer and staring at the TV.
The New Guy Who Sits Behind Me Is Cool, But Enough with the Voices
K, so, I don't really have a problem with people making the occasional sexist, racist, etc. jokes; but any form of joke gets old real quick.
So, the New Guy Who Sits Behind Me does voices. He's pretty good at it. BUT: Most of them are ethnic voices. Now, the guy's half Thai and half White – but he just looks white. You would never know he had any Asian blood in him unless you asked.
Now then, it's true, and we can all admit it: for better or for worse it's totally acceptable to get away with ethnic jokes if you're ethnic, but if you're white (or appear to be white) you better bite your tongue. So, if you're Mexican and you're making jokes about Blacks, you'll get away with it. Now, if you're White, it's a totally different story.
So, I have a white-appearing coworker who has about five episodes a day where he'll launch into an Apu, Sambo, or Irving the Jew voice.
He's not even that shy about it. I'm sure people can hear him.
What's worse is that we live in 2005 America and half of the IS department is East Indian. The second he launches into the Apu voice I feel like some Indian chick is crying in the cubicle next to us.
I don't know. It's odd and I'm sure something will come down eventually, but you never know.
Well, that's it.
Pleace
Bout As Low As She Can Get
Levi Presents: Beating a Horse who Doesn't Know it's Dead
At Home: with Donald Rumsfeld
By: Levi Larrington
Welcome! Good day! Hello!
Today on At Home, we'll be spending some time with Defense Secratary, Donald Rumsfeld.
Many of us know of his significant accomplishes within the Bush administration, but what we may not know is his love of cooking, gardening, and a good book.
So, here from the Ranch in New Mexico - Donald Rumsfeld.
LL: Hello, Secratary Rumsfeld, how are you on this balmy evening?
DR: Little parched (laughs).
LL: What have you been up to today and how are you enjoying your vacation?
DR: Oh, what haven't I been up to? Gee, well, got up around five, did some planting out in the field, over yonder; gee, then I made some enchildas for your visit and finished up with a good read.
LL: Could you give my readers some idea of books you enjoy reading?
DR: Certainly. Overall, history, you know: Churchill, Eisenhower, Nixon biographies.
LL: But, didn't you serve in Nixon's administration - what more could you want?
DR: Well, there's a lot about that administration that I didn't know about. You see, when the shi - crap hit the fan in that administration, I fled like rat on a ship to pursue a Foreign Relations post elsewhere. In retrospect, I consider it a God send. So, out in Europe, I wasn't kept up on the day-to-day ongoings of Nixon. So, I invested some reading into it and found that there's a lot we can learn from Dick.
LL: Like?
DR: Well, when a cabinet member is dismissed due to a certain scandal, there's a good chance that this will act like dominoes. And, I think it's important for any sitting president to know that it ends with him: if one falls, the rest will topple.
LL: Do you think you acquired any ideas that may help the current administration?
DR: Sure. I think it's important for a sitting president, and mainly his advisors, to know that when you, say, know who leaked a certain identity to the public, and that man is a senior advisor, it's best not to begin throwing blame around willy nilly.
LL: Good point.
DR: But, books aren't my only passion.
LL: Yes, yes, I'm sorry. The gardening. Tell us a little about it.
DR: Well, first, it's not gardening when you're planting a whole crop.
LL: Sorry, it was a case of lack for a better word.
DR: Granted, but there's a big difference from growing an entire crop of poppies for the consumption of hippies and blacks and planting - say, sunflowers.
LL: Interesting. Very interesting. Can I take a look at the current crop, or is under construction? I'm not good with seasons and I really have no clue when poppies are in bloom.
DR: Well, first of all, they're not on this ranch. Hell, they're not even on this continent.
LL: Where might they be?
DR: Well, let's just say South of Asia and to the left of, and above, of Pakistan.
LL: Right. Are the conditions better there?
DR: Oh, well, I'm not going to go and tell you that the conditions are great. There seems to be a lot of problems keeping them out of harm's way.
LL: Explain?
DR: Well, there's a large amount of, shall we say, birds that enjoy a nibble or two off the profits, er, fruit.
LL: Really?
DR: Yes. It's very important that a poppy has room to bloom, and when other farmers get into the act...well, you need to crack down.
LL: I understand.
DR: But, on the plus side, it's a new farm and things are on the up and up. See, in the world of farming, some people get a pipeline into Uzbekistan, and others get a pipeline of the sweetest horse the world has ever shot.
LL: Fascinating. Who are these other "farmers?"
DR: Well, they're native to the soil, so - that's the problem. Some people figure that if they live in a certain area, they are entitled to go on growing poppy on the land they already....harvested... rather than understanding that a new landowner is in town.
LL: Facinating.
DR: Yes. Well, back in the day, we were able to have farms out there that were run by the locals. But, well, then you see, a minority group of people come in and decide that your farms are putting out bad harvests. And, as it turns out, it's not even worth the time and money to pay these farmers, because they're being shot left and right. Well, then the minority group....leaves, indefinitly, and you have yourself in the same position as before. But, now the farmers want to harvest without your help. So, you have to split the difference and weed out those who don't want the old management, and those who understand what napalm is - get me?
LL: Sure. But, what incentive do these farmers have in working for you, the landowner?
DR: Assurances that the minority will not come back and shoot them.
LL: And if they don't agree?
DR: WE shoot them.
LL: Fascinating.
DR: So, what else?
LL: I'm sorry, I tranced out there. Cooking! Apparently, you have an affinity for cooking. Tell us more.
DR: Sure, where do I start? Well, I guess I can explain the enchiladas. It's a special recipe that takes some time and divergence from the old Mexican way.
LL: Explain?
DR: Well, the most important part of an enchilada is the sauce, of course. If you don't have a good enchilada sauce - you might as well be making soft tacos, get me?
LL: Fascinating.
DR: Well, what people find amazing, is that enchilada sauce uses a chicken broth for flavor. I'm sure a million vegetarians would have a hard time with that; but, it's the truth. So, you need a good bit of chicken - for the sauce and the filling. So, this morning, I got up real early and found myself a prized hen and went to work. The first thing you need to do in order to make enchiladas is to acquire a chicken that is ripe for the picking. Say, a chicken that's on it's last leg due to age and breeding. But, at the same time, the chicken must be good and fat, so that it looks like it's high on the hog, if you get me?
LL: Sure.
DR: Well, once you find that chicken, you need to kill it. But, before you kill a chicken, you have to make it compliant to your will. You can't just jump into the coop and grab a chicken willy nilly. I've learned they don't go for that. No, you must make it succumb to your will: humiliate it, scare it, and dominate it. So, once I've found the bird, I take it for a walk on a leash. This shows the chicken that I'm the dominate part of the relationship. I then walk it around the rest of the birds and show them that this could be them; that way, they know to be obediant and not cause a stir in the coop. Next, I need the bird to know that it's breeding days are done. So, I place the chicken in sexual positions with other female chickens to rob it of it's womanhood. In this way, the other chickens know that their futures are bleak as well and fall in line. Stripping a chicken of it's womanhood will show it that even as a slave, it's worthless. Next, I gouge out the birds reproductive organs and feed them to dogs.
Now, I have my chicken.
Next, I shoot the chicken in the head, dismember it and boil it.
At this point, I usually give in to my guilty habits and smoke a cigarette.
LL: While it's boiling?
DR: Sure, because I'm miles away.
LL: Explain?
DR: Well, I have the farm hands perform all of these task for me. I work more outside the flesh and bone of it.
LL: So, you administrate the enchiladas?
DR: Correct.
LL: Do you ever get your hands into it? You know, stir the pot yourself?
DR: I believe my adminstrative duties consist of stirring the pot.
LL: So, you're responsible for the enchilada?
DR: You bet.
LL: But, you don't actual cook it?
DR: No, like I said, I administrate the cuisine.
LL: And if it tastes bad?
DR: We have the farmhands to blame.
LL: Of course, because it's their job, right?
DR: I prefer the word duty.
LL: Fair enough.
Donald Rumsfeld Correlations
We have a shortage of fossile fuels. What makes fossil fuels? Dead organisms. How can we make more dead organisms? War. Therefore, the way to obtaining more fossil fuels: war.
I need to make more money. Money comes from utilities. What do humans utilize? Power. How do we obtain power? From enegry. Where do we get energy? From fuel. What is a fuel that is proven to stand the test of time? Oil. How do we utilize oil? We use it to power things. How do we get the oil? From oil-rich areas. Where are there oil-rich areas? All over. What area has the most? The Middle East. How do we get oil from the Middle East? We take it. How do we take it? We invade oil-rich nations. How do we suport our invasion? By declaring that the nation is using alternate forms of power; therefore, showing that the nation is using the alternate power for something else. How do we prove it? We don't need to, everyone uses alternate uses of power. How do we pay for the invasion? By convincing the world that the alternative use of power is so perverse, given the nation's abundance of oil, that it must be using the alternative form of power for perversion. How do we pay for the invasion? By using power. What power? Oil. How? In military tools. But, then we're using more power, therefore, putting us in the red. How will we make up for this? The military power will diminish our supplies and put more need on power from perverse nation. Oil will be scarce; without power we will be unable to take the power. Thus, forcing prices of power up. Then, as we obtain more power, we gain more dependency at higher prices. The equation doesn't work out? Yes, but not for many years.
Random Abstractions
If I were you, I'd drop out of the daily routines we have created amongst the dead and dying. There's no free verse that could establish this point home more subjectively. Take, for instance, the dead wife I had hanging from a hanger, not too long ago. She pouted and wanted more home fries to the degree that i found she was no longer dead. No, but living on in a pseudo universe made up of bed sheets that she constantly wanted to fold and hand among the dead fetuses we left in the garage.
I'm playing backgammon with myself again, and i keep losing. Take a slow trip to the evacuation chamber and you'll know haste.
I was trying to play solitaire, again, with the computer and he kept drawing blank cards. I inquired in the Help files and found nothing. It seems my computer would like to point out that he's in control, no matter who is typing.
There was once a disease that supplanted itself on my bedsheets and wouldn't go away. Oh, let's call her Vagerly. Vagerly knew that I didn't need another disease on my bedsheets, but, she persisted and later I found out that I had already removed her from the blood stream and sent her up North on a nowhere train bound for bungee cord.
What we later realized, was that there was no up or down, just shades of standing. We incorporated this into all of our work and decided that it was much better to sit.
I keep looking at boxes of cereal and wondering how much fiber I take in in one day? 100 grams sounds about right, so I keep telling myself this as I shit in long trails of yellow that stick to the toilet and float and swallow when flushed.
There's no point to the written language, until you decide that it's meaningless and go on randomly bantering, using combinations that will not make sense, because, they are on their own and don't wish to make sense: like humans.
There's no life in art, until you let go and keep let going until all the words fall into the page like cottonwood coming down in sheets on a dead apartment building in a suburb made of tract housing.
Somber thoughts; deader dreams. Remove the screen and you'll find that which you understood, staring you in the face, daring you to understand why you used it, and how it was used.
Kill the operator.
Operation denied.
Move onto the second level of the game and win more points by throwing stars at gingerbread people. There's no other way around the quarry that I have found in my head. I feed it filaments of dying flowers, in the hopes that it will awake and bloom.
I'm sinking slower, now.
There's a gift that they give you on your birthday. It consistst of fly larvae. You look at it, move it around, and then you spread it all over the wall in the hopes that you'll live another year.
If there is nothing sadder than the rudimentary thought processes of the monkey on thorazine, then you'll have to make due with the zoo.
Spilling feces on himself, Jarod trotted into the monkey cage and annouced his abstraction from the normal janitorial service he parlayed onto the monkeys. He said "just for that" and the monkeys began throwing shit at him and it turned into a chaos driven by dead carcasses that decided to live for the hour. In honor of this event, I will tell you a story about margarine and how it relates to ground zero in New York.
But, at a later date.
There's a point in which the feeble minds of our time begin to devour what is left of the mess they have made. They call it media and the feeble minds get to reproduce from the glow of it all.
I get a signal and decide that it's time to spice up my love life and I buy some baby oil and lube my partner and have sex to her, not feeling a thing.
We turn on the TV and begin to copulate like deranged Giraffes.
I come to quick and curse CNN.
But, then I'm back into the action. We invite a friend over and take turns sniffing glue and watching Freinds as I gain a larger hard on and have sex with myself to show my TV that I still have power over it.
Flicking channels I realize that I'm a lion humping on the Nature channel and I cannot fully, objectively, see how stupid I'm acting. I roar with emotion and then pick up empties of Thunderbird and tell the women I'll call them in the morning.
I'm stupider than this, I think. So, I turn on a reality show an pretend that I'm alive.
I will say this, if you are crook'd enough to still be reading this, then I didn't give you enough credit.
Left on the back door, is a shopping bill I received while purchasing small letters that I hang on the fridge and form words with.
I put them together in diagonals and pretend that they mean something in some foreign language I will never learn. I invite the neighors to view it and tell them that it's from another world.
We eat Brie an drink wine and chat about how amazing my letters are. I feel proud and let the cat out of the bag: it's my own language.
They grimace and leave me full of wine for another weekend.
There's nothing like meaning well in a closet full of idiots.
If I knocked into one, I've knocked into everyone I know.
And you know
And you know
And there I go
Something on the shelf, above the freezer, catches my eye and I begin to stare at it, blankly, thus, confusing the simple minds in the room that I am not blank.
No, I am made of something and I mettle.
I matter.
Here in my jar of margarine, with flies like locusts come cutting me down.
Here in my jar.
I learn new languages and drive fast cars.
I've spent the day out in limbo again, and I refuse to apologize for not making much sense. It's just that the sense of it all is the only thing holding me in suspense.
Today: woke up, showered, got coffee, went into work, looked at the internet, worked, drove home, watched TV, went to sleep. Woke up, showered, got coffee, went into work.....................
At Home: with Donald Rumsfeld
By: Levi Larrington
Welcome! Good day! Hello!
Today on At Home, we'll be spending some time with Defense Secratary, Donald Rumsfeld.
Many of us know of his significant accomplishes within the Bush administration, but what we may not know is his love of cooking, gardening, and a good book.
So, here from the Ranch in New Mexico - Donald Rumsfeld.
LL: Hello, Secratary Rumsfeld, how are you on this balmy evening?
DR: Little parched (laughs).
LL: What have you been up to today and how are you enjoying your vacation?
DR: Oh, what haven't I been up to? Gee, well, got up around five, did some planting out in the field, over yonder; gee, then I made some enchildas for your visit and finished up with a good read.
LL: Could you give my readers some idea of books you enjoy reading?
DR: Certainly. Overall, history, you know: Churchill, Eisenhower, Nixon biographies.
LL: But, didn't you serve in Nixon's administration - what more could you want?
DR: Well, there's a lot about that administration that I didn't know about. You see, when the shi - crap hit the fan in that administration, I fled like rat on a ship to pursue a Foreign Relations post elsewhere. In retrospect, I consider it a God send. So, out in Europe, I wasn't kept up on the day-to-day ongoings of Nixon. So, I invested some reading into it and found that there's a lot we can learn from Dick.
LL: Like?
DR: Well, when a cabinet member is dismissed due to a certain scandal, there's a good chance that this will act like dominoes. And, I think it's important for any sitting president to know that it ends with him: if one falls, the rest will topple.
LL: Do you think you acquired any ideas that may help the current administration?
DR: Sure. I think it's important for a sitting president, and mainly his advisors, to know that when you, say, know who leaked a certain identity to the public, and that man is a senior advisor, it's best not to begin throwing blame around willy nilly.
LL: Good point.
DR: But, books aren't my only passion.
LL: Yes, yes, I'm sorry. The gardening. Tell us a little about it.
DR: Well, first, it's not gardening when you're planting a whole crop.
LL: Sorry, it was a case of lack for a better word.
DR: Granted, but there's a big difference from growing an entire crop of poppies for the consumption of hippies and blacks and planting - say, sunflowers.
LL: Interesting. Very interesting. Can I take a look at the current crop, or is under construction? I'm not good with seasons and I really have no clue when poppies are in bloom.
DR: Well, first of all, they're not on this ranch. Hell, they're not even on this continent.
LL: Where might they be?
DR: Well, let's just say South of Asia and to the left of, and above, of Pakistan.
LL: Right. Are the conditions better there?
DR: Oh, well, I'm not going to go and tell you that the conditions are great. There seems to be a lot of problems keeping them out of harm's way.
LL: Explain?
DR: Well, there's a large amount of, shall we say, birds that enjoy a nibble or two off the profits, er, fruit.
LL: Really?
DR: Yes. It's very important that a poppy has room to bloom, and when other farmers get into the act...well, you need to crack down.
LL: I understand.
DR: But, on the plus side, it's a new farm and things are on the up and up. See, in the world of farming, some people get a pipeline into Uzbekistan, and others get a pipeline of the sweetest horse the world has ever shot.
LL: Fascinating. Who are these other "farmers?"
DR: Well, they're native to the soil, so - that's the problem. Some people figure that if they live in a certain area, they are entitled to go on growing poppy on the land they already....harvested... rather than understanding that a new landowner is in town.
LL: Facinating.
DR: Yes. Well, back in the day, we were able to have farms out there that were run by the locals. But, well, then you see, a minority group of people come in and decide that your farms are putting out bad harvests. And, as it turns out, it's not even worth the time and money to pay these farmers, because they're being shot left and right. Well, then the minority group....leaves, indefinitly, and you have yourself in the same position as before. But, now the farmers want to harvest without your help. So, you have to split the difference and weed out those who don't want the old management, and those who understand what napalm is - get me?
LL: Sure. But, what incentive do these farmers have in working for you, the landowner?
DR: Assurances that the minority will not come back and shoot them.
LL: And if they don't agree?
DR: WE shoot them.
LL: Fascinating.
DR: So, what else?
LL: I'm sorry, I tranced out there. Cooking! Apparently, you have an affinity for cooking. Tell us more.
DR: Sure, where do I start? Well, I guess I can explain the enchiladas. It's a special recipe that takes some time and divergence from the old Mexican way.
LL: Explain?
DR: Well, the most important part of an enchilada is the sauce, of course. If you don't have a good enchilada sauce - you might as well be making soft tacos, get me?
LL: Fascinating.
DR: Well, what people find amazing, is that enchilada sauce uses a chicken broth for flavor. I'm sure a million vegetarians would have a hard time with that; but, it's the truth. So, you need a good bit of chicken - for the sauce and the filling. So, this morning, I got up real early and found myself a prized hen and went to work. The first thing you need to do in order to make enchiladas is to acquire a chicken that is ripe for the picking. Say, a chicken that's on it's last leg due to age and breeding. But, at the same time, the chicken must be good and fat, so that it looks like it's high on the hog, if you get me?
LL: Sure.
DR: Well, once you find that chicken, you need to kill it. But, before you kill a chicken, you have to make it compliant to your will. You can't just jump into the coop and grab a chicken willy nilly. I've learned they don't go for that. No, you must make it succumb to your will: humiliate it, scare it, and dominate it. So, once I've found the bird, I take it for a walk on a leash. This shows the chicken that I'm the dominate part of the relationship. I then walk it around the rest of the birds and show them that this could be them; that way, they know to be obediant and not cause a stir in the coop. Next, I need the bird to know that it's breeding days are done. So, I place the chicken in sexual positions with other female chickens to rob it of it's womanhood. In this way, the other chickens know that their futures are bleak as well and fall in line. Stripping a chicken of it's womanhood will show it that even as a slave, it's worthless. Next, I gouge out the birds reproductive organs and feed them to dogs.
Now, I have my chicken.
Next, I shoot the chicken in the head, dismember it and boil it.
At this point, I usually give in to my guilty habits and smoke a cigarette.
LL: While it's boiling?
DR: Sure, because I'm miles away.
LL: Explain?
DR: Well, I have the farm hands perform all of these task for me. I work more outside the flesh and bone of it.
LL: So, you administrate the enchiladas?
DR: Correct.
LL: Do you ever get your hands into it? You know, stir the pot yourself?
DR: I believe my adminstrative duties consist of stirring the pot.
LL: So, you're responsible for the enchilada?
DR: You bet.
LL: But, you don't actual cook it?
DR: No, like I said, I administrate the cuisine.
LL: And if it tastes bad?
DR: We have the farmhands to blame.
LL: Of course, because it's their job, right?
DR: I prefer the word duty.
LL: Fair enough.
Donald Rumsfeld Correlations
We have a shortage of fossile fuels. What makes fossil fuels? Dead organisms. How can we make more dead organisms? War. Therefore, the way to obtaining more fossil fuels: war.
I need to make more money. Money comes from utilities. What do humans utilize? Power. How do we obtain power? From enegry. Where do we get energy? From fuel. What is a fuel that is proven to stand the test of time? Oil. How do we utilize oil? We use it to power things. How do we get the oil? From oil-rich areas. Where are there oil-rich areas? All over. What area has the most? The Middle East. How do we get oil from the Middle East? We take it. How do we take it? We invade oil-rich nations. How do we suport our invasion? By declaring that the nation is using alternate forms of power; therefore, showing that the nation is using the alternate power for something else. How do we prove it? We don't need to, everyone uses alternate uses of power. How do we pay for the invasion? By convincing the world that the alternative use of power is so perverse, given the nation's abundance of oil, that it must be using the alternative form of power for perversion. How do we pay for the invasion? By using power. What power? Oil. How? In military tools. But, then we're using more power, therefore, putting us in the red. How will we make up for this? The military power will diminish our supplies and put more need on power from perverse nation. Oil will be scarce; without power we will be unable to take the power. Thus, forcing prices of power up. Then, as we obtain more power, we gain more dependency at higher prices. The equation doesn't work out? Yes, but not for many years.
Random Abstractions
If I were you, I'd drop out of the daily routines we have created amongst the dead and dying. There's no free verse that could establish this point home more subjectively. Take, for instance, the dead wife I had hanging from a hanger, not too long ago. She pouted and wanted more home fries to the degree that i found she was no longer dead. No, but living on in a pseudo universe made up of bed sheets that she constantly wanted to fold and hand among the dead fetuses we left in the garage.
I'm playing backgammon with myself again, and i keep losing. Take a slow trip to the evacuation chamber and you'll know haste.
I was trying to play solitaire, again, with the computer and he kept drawing blank cards. I inquired in the Help files and found nothing. It seems my computer would like to point out that he's in control, no matter who is typing.
There was once a disease that supplanted itself on my bedsheets and wouldn't go away. Oh, let's call her Vagerly. Vagerly knew that I didn't need another disease on my bedsheets, but, she persisted and later I found out that I had already removed her from the blood stream and sent her up North on a nowhere train bound for bungee cord.
What we later realized, was that there was no up or down, just shades of standing. We incorporated this into all of our work and decided that it was much better to sit.
I keep looking at boxes of cereal and wondering how much fiber I take in in one day? 100 grams sounds about right, so I keep telling myself this as I shit in long trails of yellow that stick to the toilet and float and swallow when flushed.
There's no point to the written language, until you decide that it's meaningless and go on randomly bantering, using combinations that will not make sense, because, they are on their own and don't wish to make sense: like humans.
There's no life in art, until you let go and keep let going until all the words fall into the page like cottonwood coming down in sheets on a dead apartment building in a suburb made of tract housing.
Somber thoughts; deader dreams. Remove the screen and you'll find that which you understood, staring you in the face, daring you to understand why you used it, and how it was used.
Kill the operator.
Operation denied.
Move onto the second level of the game and win more points by throwing stars at gingerbread people. There's no other way around the quarry that I have found in my head. I feed it filaments of dying flowers, in the hopes that it will awake and bloom.
I'm sinking slower, now.
There's a gift that they give you on your birthday. It consistst of fly larvae. You look at it, move it around, and then you spread it all over the wall in the hopes that you'll live another year.
If there is nothing sadder than the rudimentary thought processes of the monkey on thorazine, then you'll have to make due with the zoo.
Spilling feces on himself, Jarod trotted into the monkey cage and annouced his abstraction from the normal janitorial service he parlayed onto the monkeys. He said "just for that" and the monkeys began throwing shit at him and it turned into a chaos driven by dead carcasses that decided to live for the hour. In honor of this event, I will tell you a story about margarine and how it relates to ground zero in New York.
But, at a later date.
There's a point in which the feeble minds of our time begin to devour what is left of the mess they have made. They call it media and the feeble minds get to reproduce from the glow of it all.
I get a signal and decide that it's time to spice up my love life and I buy some baby oil and lube my partner and have sex to her, not feeling a thing.
We turn on the TV and begin to copulate like deranged Giraffes.
I come to quick and curse CNN.
But, then I'm back into the action. We invite a friend over and take turns sniffing glue and watching Freinds as I gain a larger hard on and have sex with myself to show my TV that I still have power over it.
Flicking channels I realize that I'm a lion humping on the Nature channel and I cannot fully, objectively, see how stupid I'm acting. I roar with emotion and then pick up empties of Thunderbird and tell the women I'll call them in the morning.
I'm stupider than this, I think. So, I turn on a reality show an pretend that I'm alive.
I will say this, if you are crook'd enough to still be reading this, then I didn't give you enough credit.
Left on the back door, is a shopping bill I received while purchasing small letters that I hang on the fridge and form words with.
I put them together in diagonals and pretend that they mean something in some foreign language I will never learn. I invite the neighors to view it and tell them that it's from another world.
We eat Brie an drink wine and chat about how amazing my letters are. I feel proud and let the cat out of the bag: it's my own language.
They grimace and leave me full of wine for another weekend.
There's nothing like meaning well in a closet full of idiots.
If I knocked into one, I've knocked into everyone I know.
And you know
And you know
And there I go
Something on the shelf, above the freezer, catches my eye and I begin to stare at it, blankly, thus, confusing the simple minds in the room that I am not blank.
No, I am made of something and I mettle.
I matter.
Here in my jar of margarine, with flies like locusts come cutting me down.
Here in my jar.
I learn new languages and drive fast cars.
I've spent the day out in limbo again, and I refuse to apologize for not making much sense. It's just that the sense of it all is the only thing holding me in suspense.
Today: woke up, showered, got coffee, went into work, looked at the internet, worked, drove home, watched TV, went to sleep. Woke up, showered, got coffee, went into work.....................
A New Post
http://spaces.msn.com/members/ditavlckova/
What's a Larrington?
http://www.google.com/search
Man, I could really go for a porno with Condoleeza Rice
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
I'm looking for a picture of Ed Asner Naked
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
That was delicious, now let me see if I can find Lionel Ritchie
Where can I find a good example of adult illiteracy?
http://www.baidu.com/s
What shall I whack off to today? I know Tonya Harding and Bestiality!
http://spaces.msn.com/members/junquedujour/PersonalSpace.aspx
K, let's check my stats and see if anyone told me how rad I am...
http://www.technorati.com/search/"double penetration"
This one speaks for itself
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/
Dude, I wonder if Matt died that night in Vegas, let's check
http://www.google.com/search
I need a recipe for pork
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
God, that was erotic, now I need to find a picture of Lionel and Ed fucking
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/
Check the stats, see how rad I am
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/PersonalSpace.aspx
Man, I am rad
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/
Oh, my God! I totally am going to make some friends on MSN!
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
K, wipe up and – K, one more of Ed and Nicole Ritchie
Mr. President, I'm on it. By noon tomorrow this blog will be no more.
http://spaces.msn.com/members/ditavlckova/
I wonder if he has any coke
FEED WEBSITE INTO MATRIX
http://www.google.co.uk/search
Oi! Get a wee bit o' laffs off this bloke. Hun, bring the wee bairns!
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/Blog/cns!1prDkfrY6ftdM9DDODURAwHQ!2398.entry
What's a Larrington?
http://www.google.com/search
Man, I could really go for a porno with Condoleeza Rice
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
I'm looking for a picture of Ed Asner Naked
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
That was delicious, now let me see if I can find Lionel Ritchie
Where can I find a good example of adult illiteracy?
http://www.baidu.com/s
What shall I whack off to today? I know Tonya Harding and Bestiality!
http://spaces.msn.com/members/junquedujour/PersonalSpace.aspx
K, let's check my stats and see if anyone told me how rad I am...
http://www.technorati.com/search/"double penetration"
This one speaks for itself
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/
Dude, I wonder if Matt died that night in Vegas, let's check
http://www.google.com/search
I need a recipe for pork
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
God, that was erotic, now I need to find a picture of Lionel and Ed fucking
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/
Check the stats, see how rad I am
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/PersonalSpace.aspx
Man, I am rad
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/
Oh, my God! I totally am going to make some friends on MSN!
http://images.google.com.au/imgres
K, wipe up and – K, one more of Ed and Nicole Ritchie
Mr. President, I'm on it. By noon tomorrow this blog will be no more.
http://spaces.msn.com/members/ditavlckova/
I wonder if he has any coke
FEED WEBSITE INTO MATRIX
http://www.google.co.uk/search
Oi! Get a wee bit o' laffs off this bloke. Hun, bring the wee bairns!
http://spaces.msn.com/members/levilarrington/Blog/cns!1prDkfrY6ftdM9DDODURAwHQ!2398.entry
Monday
Arnold Plebus
Arnold was busy in the garden, selling mustard to the small the children getting home from school.
"They are tiny packets of good luck syrup, that will make you grow into all-star athletes. Children, children, please believe me on this one. This is not the time to start bringing up the asbestos sandwiches I sold you last Halloween."
Arnold was quite a showman, and he regaled the children with his "feats of danger." In doing this, he brought children from miles away to buy small, individual mustard packets from him.
"Children! The first feat of danger will now commence. Now, may I ask for a volunteer? Yes, you kind, sir. What is your name? Timmy! Yes, Timmy will now commence the first feat of danger. Now, Timmy, what I'm going to ask that you do is CLIMB THIS RICKETY LADDER!"
And, with that, Arnold pointed at Slip n' Slide he had taped to his house and painted rungs on.
As Timmy grabbed plastic fist after plastic fist of Slip n' Slide, Arnold sold more mustard.
By the time Timmy got to the second floor window, the Slip n' Slide fell, leaving Timmy motionless on the ground.
"AND NOW! Our next feat of danger: Take the wrap for Timmy's demise!"
The children scattered and Arnold was left with his mustard packets and 7.87 in mostly nickels.
"Timmy? Hey, guy? Are you alright? C'mon, Tim. Come back to me."
Arnold then did what any man would do in his position: he ran. He ran as fast as he could down the street. Past the Green Grocer, the Red Hen, and the Church of Latter Day Saints.
Arnold made a stop at the church, where he asked if it was possible to bring Timmy back to life with jumper cables and Holy Water.
After sending Arnold on his way, the Deacon...or whoever runs the Church called the police.
Arnold was just in time to be apprehended by the police; otherwise, he would have shocked Timmy beyond all recognition.
Again, Arnold found himself in jail.
Arnold was busy in the garden, selling mustard to the small the children getting home from school.
"They are tiny packets of good luck syrup, that will make you grow into all-star athletes. Children, children, please believe me on this one. This is not the time to start bringing up the asbestos sandwiches I sold you last Halloween."
Arnold was quite a showman, and he regaled the children with his "feats of danger." In doing this, he brought children from miles away to buy small, individual mustard packets from him.
"Children! The first feat of danger will now commence. Now, may I ask for a volunteer? Yes, you kind, sir. What is your name? Timmy! Yes, Timmy will now commence the first feat of danger. Now, Timmy, what I'm going to ask that you do is CLIMB THIS RICKETY LADDER!"
And, with that, Arnold pointed at Slip n' Slide he had taped to his house and painted rungs on.
As Timmy grabbed plastic fist after plastic fist of Slip n' Slide, Arnold sold more mustard.
By the time Timmy got to the second floor window, the Slip n' Slide fell, leaving Timmy motionless on the ground.
"AND NOW! Our next feat of danger: Take the wrap for Timmy's demise!"
The children scattered and Arnold was left with his mustard packets and 7.87 in mostly nickels.
"Timmy? Hey, guy? Are you alright? C'mon, Tim. Come back to me."
Arnold then did what any man would do in his position: he ran. He ran as fast as he could down the street. Past the Green Grocer, the Red Hen, and the Church of Latter Day Saints.
Arnold made a stop at the church, where he asked if it was possible to bring Timmy back to life with jumper cables and Holy Water.
After sending Arnold on his way, the Deacon...or whoever runs the Church called the police.
Arnold was just in time to be apprehended by the police; otherwise, he would have shocked Timmy beyond all recognition.
Again, Arnold found himself in jail.
I've Ran Out of Things to Converse with You About
I've ran out of things to converse about with you
I'm staring at the screen this morning wondering what to write about when an old coworker comes over to say hello.
Totally nice guy, really. But, it's just...um...there's a certain point where I can't come up with any more conversation.
There are really not a lot of good points to me, Matt Eckert, but I can say that I have a very large imagination. What is the matter with me that I cannot come up with mindless chatter? Here's how our real convo went:
"Hey!" Him.
"Hey!" Me.
"Thought I'd swing by and say hello."
"Hey! How's the new job?"
"Great, a lot more physical work, but really great."
"Awesome. So, how's the commute?"
"Ah, well, going down there isn't that bad, but coming back – whoa!"
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
At this point I realize I have no more questions to ask him. Not only that, I feel like if I come up with a good question/conversation piece it'll spin into a longer conversation.
I mean, I guess I could've:
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
"Auburn, Washington?"
"Yeah."
"In the United States, right?"
"Yeah. Good old U.S. soil."
"And you'd be giving out work for money, right?"
"Yep, capitalism."
"And that's U.S. currency, right?"
"Yeah, greenbacks."
"And, you'd be human, correct?"
"Yep, here's my elbow and here's my arm."
And so forth.
Or:
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
"How do you think your life would change if all of a sudden you were mentally handicapped?"
"Whoa! Um. I guess I wouldn't be working down in Auburn."
"Yeah, you'd probably have to work in one of those places where you make bird feeders all day."
"Yeah, I know. Man."
"And you'd probably not have your girlfriend."
"That's right, the mentally handicapped probably only date their own."
"Yeah, I would guess it'd be a crime to date a mentally handicapped person."
"Yeah, I wonder why that is?"
"Probably the whole brain of a three-year-old thing."
"Yeah, that would suck."
And so forth.
Or:
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
"So, wanna kill a homeless person with me this weekend?"
"Whoa! No thanks."
"You sure, they're really hurting the economy?"
"Um, later dude."
It really bothers me that I don't put my words into practice more often.
Pleace,
Matt
I'm staring at the screen this morning wondering what to write about when an old coworker comes over to say hello.
Totally nice guy, really. But, it's just...um...there's a certain point where I can't come up with any more conversation.
There are really not a lot of good points to me, Matt Eckert, but I can say that I have a very large imagination. What is the matter with me that I cannot come up with mindless chatter? Here's how our real convo went:
"Hey!" Him.
"Hey!" Me.
"Thought I'd swing by and say hello."
"Hey! How's the new job?"
"Great, a lot more physical work, but really great."
"Awesome. So, how's the commute?"
"Ah, well, going down there isn't that bad, but coming back – whoa!"
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
At this point I realize I have no more questions to ask him. Not only that, I feel like if I come up with a good question/conversation piece it'll spin into a longer conversation.
I mean, I guess I could've:
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
"Auburn, Washington?"
"Yeah."
"In the United States, right?"
"Yeah. Good old U.S. soil."
"And you'd be giving out work for money, right?"
"Yep, capitalism."
"And that's U.S. currency, right?"
"Yeah, greenbacks."
"And, you'd be human, correct?"
"Yep, here's my elbow and here's my arm."
And so forth.
Or:
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
"How do you think your life would change if all of a sudden you were mentally handicapped?"
"Whoa! Um. I guess I wouldn't be working down in Auburn."
"Yeah, you'd probably have to work in one of those places where you make bird feeders all day."
"Yeah, I know. Man."
"And you'd probably not have your girlfriend."
"That's right, the mentally handicapped probably only date their own."
"Yeah, I would guess it'd be a crime to date a mentally handicapped person."
"Yeah, I wonder why that is?"
"Probably the whole brain of a three-year-old thing."
"Yeah, that would suck."
And so forth.
Or:
"Yeah, so that's in Auburn, right?"
"Yeah."
"So, wanna kill a homeless person with me this weekend?"
"Whoa! No thanks."
"You sure, they're really hurting the economy?"
"Um, later dude."
It really bothers me that I don't put my words into practice more often.
Pleace,
Matt
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
ATTENTION: WORKER!!
ATTENTION: WORKER
Facilities has wiped down your desk and removed any biohazards from your area.
A liquid nitrogen sweep of your desk was used to kill any remaining bacteria. Therefore, it is important to test all objects on your desk for any cracks, leaks, etc. that may occurred due to the freezing process.
Faith has been restored to this cube, and your coworkers celebrate your return to work/regret your sorrowful passing.
Keep in mind that your integration back into the work force will be a trying time and we have provided the following number for any assistance you may need: 1 800 738 3838.
In the even that you are in fact deceased, please disregard this message.
Further, be informed that many of your coworkers are suspected of being infected by you and your suite of pathogens. Therefore, you may be entering an empty cube.
Worker, it is your responsibility to take on the tasks of the department in this event. As a company we cannot maintain with 75% of our workforce gone because of exposure to your flu. We are counting on you.
You may notice that some coworkers will return to work zombified by the near death experience that follows Swine Flu. A small booklet and job aid on how to remove the heads of said zombies has been inserted in your desk drawer. Look over the contents and remain vigilant. Zombies feed off the brain tissue of the living and it's important to note that you low level employment at this company/firm demonstrates that you lack the capacity for it. However, if you feel you are employed in this state as a result of a misfortune and do have the brain matter that zombies crave, it is a good idea to sniff strong cheese as to give your brain an unpleasant aroma.
The company/firm is not responsible for any wrongful zombie death. For instance, if you feel you have killed a human in error, please report it to the police department/martial law in your neighborhood. From there it is out of our hands.
You may notice an unpleasant aroma coming from your neighbor's cubes – that is simply a highly qualified employee sniffing cheese to ware off zombie attacks – pay no attention.
In the event that you return to work with no management available, please create tasks that are time consuming for yourself to do. We can't have you being lazy even if there is no work to perform.
Workers payments will continue to be processed as automation survives. However, keep in mind that your employer is in possession of a dead man's switch that he can turn as he passes which will null and void all payments to you, the worker.
If you find that you are not receiving payments and feel there is no point in coming to work, we would like to remind you that we still have the best benefits in the business and Friday is still Hawaiian t-shirt day.
Your phone will now only dial out to an emergency line.
Coffee and bathroom privileges have been revoked due to contamination. If you feel you need to relieve yourself, please use a purse or wallet.
The cafeteria will also be closed and workers are encouraged to not bring food into work by penalty of gun shot.
Lastly, be merry! You survived the epidemic and still work for the best company in the world, no matter who's left and if you are being paid.
Who knows, maybe next year you'll be enjoying a promotion as head zombie burier.
Facilities has wiped down your desk and removed any biohazards from your area.
A liquid nitrogen sweep of your desk was used to kill any remaining bacteria. Therefore, it is important to test all objects on your desk for any cracks, leaks, etc. that may occurred due to the freezing process.
Faith has been restored to this cube, and your coworkers celebrate your return to work/regret your sorrowful passing.
Keep in mind that your integration back into the work force will be a trying time and we have provided the following number for any assistance you may need: 1 800 738 3838.
In the even that you are in fact deceased, please disregard this message.
Further, be informed that many of your coworkers are suspected of being infected by you and your suite of pathogens. Therefore, you may be entering an empty cube.
Worker, it is your responsibility to take on the tasks of the department in this event. As a company we cannot maintain with 75% of our workforce gone because of exposure to your flu. We are counting on you.
You may notice that some coworkers will return to work zombified by the near death experience that follows Swine Flu. A small booklet and job aid on how to remove the heads of said zombies has been inserted in your desk drawer. Look over the contents and remain vigilant. Zombies feed off the brain tissue of the living and it's important to note that you low level employment at this company/firm demonstrates that you lack the capacity for it. However, if you feel you are employed in this state as a result of a misfortune and do have the brain matter that zombies crave, it is a good idea to sniff strong cheese as to give your brain an unpleasant aroma.
The company/firm is not responsible for any wrongful zombie death. For instance, if you feel you have killed a human in error, please report it to the police department/martial law in your neighborhood. From there it is out of our hands.
You may notice an unpleasant aroma coming from your neighbor's cubes – that is simply a highly qualified employee sniffing cheese to ware off zombie attacks – pay no attention.
In the event that you return to work with no management available, please create tasks that are time consuming for yourself to do. We can't have you being lazy even if there is no work to perform.
Workers payments will continue to be processed as automation survives. However, keep in mind that your employer is in possession of a dead man's switch that he can turn as he passes which will null and void all payments to you, the worker.
If you find that you are not receiving payments and feel there is no point in coming to work, we would like to remind you that we still have the best benefits in the business and Friday is still Hawaiian t-shirt day.
Your phone will now only dial out to an emergency line.
Coffee and bathroom privileges have been revoked due to contamination. If you feel you need to relieve yourself, please use a purse or wallet.
The cafeteria will also be closed and workers are encouraged to not bring food into work by penalty of gun shot.
Lastly, be merry! You survived the epidemic and still work for the best company in the world, no matter who's left and if you are being paid.
Who knows, maybe next year you'll be enjoying a promotion as head zombie burier.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Hunted
Please shoot Lance Armstrong into space
Nothing bothers me more than bullshit news. I guess it's my fault for reading CNN everyday, but every other outlet is ten times worse.
Sure, there are the liberal pages that are convinced that George Bush is trying to supplant an army of replicants in every Walmart. And there are the conservative ones that will tell you that Ted Kennedy turned a preschool into his own personal buffet. But, what I want is an actual news source that gives me news.
That's why the last two days have left me especially pissed off. It's one thing to completely ignore the ongoing investigation of the White House that will hopefully put Bushco in the slammer, but it's another thing to replace it with a junkie biker and a spaceship rocketing into the heavens with your grandchildren's Social Security.
OK, so there's no proof that Lance is on roids and that his nutsack is the size of a day old pea, but damnit, I hate him. His three-year-old rant on how he showed us? Some garbage about "the cynics" or some shit hating on him. Bullshit. Look, Lance – I could give a shit. Ride your bike, win prizes and such – I'm just sick of seeing your fucking face. It looks like someone plunged your skull into silly putty as hard as they could and then imprinted that shitty grin on your face for good. Fucking walnut head. I guess it's just that thing where you can just look at people and hate them. Well, Lance, here's to you: I hate you for no reason. But, damn do I hate you. I'm so glad you're retiring and I don't have to hear about what a fucking hero you are for riding your bike around the Netherlands or whatever? DAMN!
Space Shuttle: FUCKING WASTE OF MONEY! Seriously, these dumbass missions are accomplishing nothing except entertainment. Send robots. We don't need to put people's lives in jeopardy so that they can float around holding "Happy Chanukah" signs and playing grabass with the Russians. Do you have any idea how much it costs to send a space shuttle into orbit? Me neither. But, I'm positive it's enough to feed every homeless person in the United States for years on end. But, c'mon, the Space Shuttle is cool! Maybe for a retarded third grader. Otherwise, it's a waste of money and robots and telescopes could easily do the work the "heroes" on the shuttle are doing.
Goddamnit I hate Lance Armstrong and the Space Shuttle.
Look, we can solve the nations dipshit fix for ever if we just send a solar-powered, bike-riding robot to Mars and every summer we can watch it scale Olympus Mons like the champ that it is.
Pleace,
Matt
Nothing bothers me more than bullshit news. I guess it's my fault for reading CNN everyday, but every other outlet is ten times worse.
Sure, there are the liberal pages that are convinced that George Bush is trying to supplant an army of replicants in every Walmart. And there are the conservative ones that will tell you that Ted Kennedy turned a preschool into his own personal buffet. But, what I want is an actual news source that gives me news.
That's why the last two days have left me especially pissed off. It's one thing to completely ignore the ongoing investigation of the White House that will hopefully put Bushco in the slammer, but it's another thing to replace it with a junkie biker and a spaceship rocketing into the heavens with your grandchildren's Social Security.
OK, so there's no proof that Lance is on roids and that his nutsack is the size of a day old pea, but damnit, I hate him. His three-year-old rant on how he showed us? Some garbage about "the cynics" or some shit hating on him. Bullshit. Look, Lance – I could give a shit. Ride your bike, win prizes and such – I'm just sick of seeing your fucking face. It looks like someone plunged your skull into silly putty as hard as they could and then imprinted that shitty grin on your face for good. Fucking walnut head. I guess it's just that thing where you can just look at people and hate them. Well, Lance, here's to you: I hate you for no reason. But, damn do I hate you. I'm so glad you're retiring and I don't have to hear about what a fucking hero you are for riding your bike around the Netherlands or whatever? DAMN!
Space Shuttle: FUCKING WASTE OF MONEY! Seriously, these dumbass missions are accomplishing nothing except entertainment. Send robots. We don't need to put people's lives in jeopardy so that they can float around holding "Happy Chanukah" signs and playing grabass with the Russians. Do you have any idea how much it costs to send a space shuttle into orbit? Me neither. But, I'm positive it's enough to feed every homeless person in the United States for years on end. But, c'mon, the Space Shuttle is cool! Maybe for a retarded third grader. Otherwise, it's a waste of money and robots and telescopes could easily do the work the "heroes" on the shuttle are doing.
Goddamnit I hate Lance Armstrong and the Space Shuttle.
Look, we can solve the nations dipshit fix for ever if we just send a solar-powered, bike-riding robot to Mars and every summer we can watch it scale Olympus Mons like the champ that it is.
Pleace,
Matt
Till the Morning's Gone
I'm beginning to hate Blair as much as Bush
The twit said the world "fell asleep" after September 11th, in response to the London bombings.
Just which world is Blair living in? Does Bizzarro Superman know that Blair is on his turf?
Everyone I know who didn't give a fuck about current events before 9/11 is now a specialist on international affairs. Those who did pay attention are now playing fantasy foreign policy on Internet leagues.
Meanwhile, the "Terror Alert" goes from orange to red every day, I can't check out a library book without NATO knowing about it, and if I see another "Support our troops" sticker I'm going to puke.
Fuck you, Blair! Everyone has been wide-awake. Did you expect Londoners to frisk the person next to them on the subway? Did an American homemaker in Lacrosse, Wisconsin fail to be vigilant enough to take a pilgrimage to Pakistan and weed out the terrorist cells operating there? Should I have posted every link to terror sites on the web and have some sort of intelligence station in my home to help Tony hunt the bad guys?
Blair, you smarmy twit, everyone was awake it's just that you're too involved in a bullshit war to notice the one that's actually threatening your people.
Dumb ass.
The twit said the world "fell asleep" after September 11th, in response to the London bombings.
Just which world is Blair living in? Does Bizzarro Superman know that Blair is on his turf?
Everyone I know who didn't give a fuck about current events before 9/11 is now a specialist on international affairs. Those who did pay attention are now playing fantasy foreign policy on Internet leagues.
Meanwhile, the "Terror Alert" goes from orange to red every day, I can't check out a library book without NATO knowing about it, and if I see another "Support our troops" sticker I'm going to puke.
Fuck you, Blair! Everyone has been wide-awake. Did you expect Londoners to frisk the person next to them on the subway? Did an American homemaker in Lacrosse, Wisconsin fail to be vigilant enough to take a pilgrimage to Pakistan and weed out the terrorist cells operating there? Should I have posted every link to terror sites on the web and have some sort of intelligence station in my home to help Tony hunt the bad guys?
Blair, you smarmy twit, everyone was awake it's just that you're too involved in a bullshit war to notice the one that's actually threatening your people.
Dumb ass.
Jam Till the Evening
2000 ways to make a cockroach. There are. Gnomes began attacking the village around ten and the villagers ran to the great water pump. Sundown now. Gnomes everywhere. The empty bodies of the villagers litter the village. The Gnomes eat out the insides. They have full reign. The Gnomes. The villagers have now died out. The Gnomes begin elaborate programs to teach the children Jujitsu. Crime runs rampant and the neighboring villages worry that the Gnomes will come after them with their Kung Fu kick action. A fire on the beach gives warning to the others that Tomahawk missiles will soon be vaporizing the Gnomes. But, the Gnomes are clever. They are clever Gnomes. They reach out to the Sun God Sagittarius and beg for protection. The missiles evaporate like sand falling from the sky. "There's no way we're ever going to stop these Gnomes." "Are the Gnomes going to attack us?" "Damn them Gnomes!" Fucking Gnomes are good for nothing but stamping barley and killing the townsfolk. End quote. The villagers from Sable, that's down the road and across the table, say they've found a new and better God to pray to and the Gnomes don't have a chance. "Trust in George Harrison and the Gnomes will be exterminated." And they were. No more Gnomes. George Harrison turned them into sand right before their very eyes, they had no chance to pray for salvation. So, you know: no more Gnomes.
Hotter Vegas Nights!
Vegas 4
"I've already had four!"
- Chris Weisberg deplaning at 11 in the morning.
Saturday left one large dent in my liver.
When I'm finally diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, the doctor will point at one of the many large blemishes on my liver and the largest one I will name Saturday.
Normally, after an all-night drinkathon, you take it easy the next day; if only to clear the pallet with junk food and Perrier. But, I was in Vegas, and Weisberg was now in the general vicinity.
Weisberg works nights and rarely shows his face out in the bars these days. Now, no one will ever admit to being happy to see Chris, but, when it's been awhile, and he's loaded, it can be quite an adventure.
It's like having Tang. Sure, it tastes like shit if you drink it daily, but after a long – wait, no, it's not like Tang at all. Chris is an anomaly all unto himself.
With whatever I was rambling about in mind, it's important to remind ourselves that George W. Bush is the biggest scum bag America has known and voting for him IS a character flaw. Nixon would wet himself if he saw the viciousness of this right wing, Christian, bible thump of a Presidency.
Boy, that's like coming.
But, all flatulence aside, where were we?
Vegas.
Scott and Shannon had fled my beer farts early on and I was left alone in the room to receive Chris' multiple calls.
1. "Matt, I'm getting off the plane. I'm four in!"
2. "Matt, I just bought a chocolate bar from a vending machine. Vegas, baby!"
3. "Matt, I'm taking a leak – we're going to get fucked up!"
4. "Natalie, did you pick up Carson's cold medicine? Wait – sorry, hey Eckert – Vegas, baby!"
5. "Matt, I'm hailing a cab."
6. "Matt, my dog just ate some paint balls – what do I do?"
7. "Matt, I'm down in the lobby – Vegas, baby!"
And so forth.
It was now around 11.30 and I knew there was no chance of hanging out with Chris sober. Chris is the Immaculate Drinking Buddy. That's why God put Chris on Earth. He'll drink as much as you, make just as big of an ass of himself, and will not fall into jags of depression that leave you trying to talk him out of suicide.
Now that I have typed that, I'm not sure it makes any sense.
Doesn't matter.
This is a free nation and I can type whatever I want: fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt
And now a message from Michael Powell, FCC
Oh, Lordeth, you walketh with me in valleys of lycra and velveteen rabbits. You locketh mine enemies in dead bolt veal cage vaults and maketh me to lie down with prepubescent, arrogant Texans where I geteth saddle sore from wrastling with oil soaketh'd cattle rustlers who stuffeth me full of Atkineth dietary supplements of Iraqi flesh. You woo me with country anthems about whateth an American should be, nay whateth he must be. I lie down on this hammock and sucketh lemonade and whilst doing your work. Oh, Lord hear me roar with pride as a smote my enemies and lay them down in thorny brushes where I dawn blackface and do chores in the White House kitchen. Amen.
Chris and I then determined that we would need to procure a case of beer, as the constant charge of 3.75 was putting a substantial dent in my fundage.
Before we embarked, we also determined that we would need a beer for the journey to Wallgreens.
After paying another 3.75, we headed out.
The heat was a mean beast that day, and we had to shelter our lily-white skin from the constant barrage of UV rays. I donned a large Chewbacca outfit, while Chris went with the more trivial tiger costume.
Wait.
Nevermind, that was actually another trip.
Anyway. So, then we walked to Wallgreens.
On the way, Chris decided it was imperative that he patron every 1.99 shop on the way. Apparently, his child wanted, nay, needed a Las Vegas shirt that cost a buck on the opposite end of Vegas.
And Chris needed sunglasses.
Oh, and a tank top that I'm sure his fiancé is using to wash a window as I write this.
"I'm starting to feel it."
This came from Chris. Now, when you're over the age of 17, you don't generally use this phrase when talking about alcohol. Ecstasy – sure. Bud Light – no. I was beginning to think my drinking buddy was not as formable that my later rambling would attest to.
This was around the time Chris and I walked into a dead end out into the middle of the street. I knew Chris was drunk when he ventured to climb a barrier up through bushes to get back to the main sidewalk.
After pulling Tarzan from the brush, we made our way to the sidewalk and I quickly lectured Chris on not getting me arrested for brush climbing.
Back on the concourse, we visited nine shops in search of a "killer deal" on sunglasses.
I'm not big on sunglasses and I don't understand why more people don't choose to squint.
Finally, Chris decided on the sunglasses we had seen an hour early and we were perusing the price of beer at five local merchants. I was adamant that Wallgreens would be cheaper and our journey ended there.
To my chagrin, Wallgreens sold everything BUT beer.
It was at this time I dropped to my knees and screeched "OH, THE HUMANITY."
We purchased beer from a store that also carried a wide variety of things to stab, shoot, spray, dismember, and burn any human that would dare to work at the register of said store.
I'm sure this comes in handy when you're out and about and need to pick up a pack of smokes, some milk, and a belt of throwing stars.
Chris got his glasses and I received a phone call.
It was Josh.
"Matt, we're at Barbary Coast with my Dad and Jim, you guys want to meet us? Dollar drinks-"
I hung up the phone, grabbed Chris by the lapels and shook him violently. "DOLLAR DRINKS!"
Imagine Saturday Night Fever as the following occurs.
Chris walks in, wearing shades, smoke and beer in one hand, and rack of beer over the shoulder like a Van Halen video. I'm surprised we didn't get kicked out for bringing our own juice.
But, when you're shilling out dollar drinks – what does it matter.
After waiting 45 minutes I finally got the waitresses attention. I ordered eleven beers and we sat down and discussed the Belmont stakes....and I just realized I left out Friday.
OK, well, I suppose this journal will now operate like a Quentin Tarrantino movie, with the scenes all screwed around.
Damnit. This is Chris' fault: "When do I make an appearance? When am I going to be in the blog?"
Ass.
Well, with that in mind, let's move to the next scene.
I'm hung over and staring at a penguin. It's 9 in the morning. I'm so hung over that pure screwdriver is seeping from my pores. The penguin mocks me. He squawks obscene gestures and humps a turtle nearby.
The putrid taste of cheap Barbary Coast OJ and vodka is still in my mouth after brushing my teeth nine times. The act of even summoning up this morning is making me sick now. In fact, I just puked on the Guy Who Sits Behind Me. He said "That's cool. I was going to wash this shirt tonight anyway."
A daisy chain of children walked by, and I grabbed one and shook her hard yelling "Don't become like me!"
I was quickly assaulted by the rest of the children who had purchased throwing stars and samurai swords from the liquor store. As the stars hit my belly a noxious gas made of pizza and vodka began hissing out of my body and when I opened my eyes I had killed the entire "Flamingo Garden" population of random animals.
But, most of this is hearsay.
We now cut to the next scene.
Walking into the room, I chanced upon the mirror and found that the pizza had dripped cheese runoff all over my shirt. I sat in my own filth and began eating. Later, Shanna came in and the absurdity of me eating a pizza on a desk with stains all over my clothes while watching CNN out of the corner of my eye hit us like a brick.
Lord. I'm sick. Need to go home. Bored. I have the day off tomorrow. Coffee is cold. Need oxygen, pure oxygen. They sold it in Vegas. Running out the clock. Need to get an hour of writing in. Realize I have no plans for my day off. Must eat Cheetos and watch daytime TV. Play scrabble. Why did I just wish an employee a "good night" at 11.40?
P.S. P.S.
"I've already had four!"
- Chris Weisberg deplaning at 11 in the morning.
Saturday left one large dent in my liver.
When I'm finally diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, the doctor will point at one of the many large blemishes on my liver and the largest one I will name Saturday.
Normally, after an all-night drinkathon, you take it easy the next day; if only to clear the pallet with junk food and Perrier. But, I was in Vegas, and Weisberg was now in the general vicinity.
Weisberg works nights and rarely shows his face out in the bars these days. Now, no one will ever admit to being happy to see Chris, but, when it's been awhile, and he's loaded, it can be quite an adventure.
It's like having Tang. Sure, it tastes like shit if you drink it daily, but after a long – wait, no, it's not like Tang at all. Chris is an anomaly all unto himself.
With whatever I was rambling about in mind, it's important to remind ourselves that George W. Bush is the biggest scum bag America has known and voting for him IS a character flaw. Nixon would wet himself if he saw the viciousness of this right wing, Christian, bible thump of a Presidency.
Boy, that's like coming.
But, all flatulence aside, where were we?
Vegas.
Scott and Shannon had fled my beer farts early on and I was left alone in the room to receive Chris' multiple calls.
1. "Matt, I'm getting off the plane. I'm four in!"
2. "Matt, I just bought a chocolate bar from a vending machine. Vegas, baby!"
3. "Matt, I'm taking a leak – we're going to get fucked up!"
4. "Natalie, did you pick up Carson's cold medicine? Wait – sorry, hey Eckert – Vegas, baby!"
5. "Matt, I'm hailing a cab."
6. "Matt, my dog just ate some paint balls – what do I do?"
7. "Matt, I'm down in the lobby – Vegas, baby!"
And so forth.
It was now around 11.30 and I knew there was no chance of hanging out with Chris sober. Chris is the Immaculate Drinking Buddy. That's why God put Chris on Earth. He'll drink as much as you, make just as big of an ass of himself, and will not fall into jags of depression that leave you trying to talk him out of suicide.
Now that I have typed that, I'm not sure it makes any sense.
Doesn't matter.
This is a free nation and I can type whatever I want: fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt
And now a message from Michael Powell, FCC
Oh, Lordeth, you walketh with me in valleys of lycra and velveteen rabbits. You locketh mine enemies in dead bolt veal cage vaults and maketh me to lie down with prepubescent, arrogant Texans where I geteth saddle sore from wrastling with oil soaketh'd cattle rustlers who stuffeth me full of Atkineth dietary supplements of Iraqi flesh. You woo me with country anthems about whateth an American should be, nay whateth he must be. I lie down on this hammock and sucketh lemonade and whilst doing your work. Oh, Lord hear me roar with pride as a smote my enemies and lay them down in thorny brushes where I dawn blackface and do chores in the White House kitchen. Amen.
Chris and I then determined that we would need to procure a case of beer, as the constant charge of 3.75 was putting a substantial dent in my fundage.
Before we embarked, we also determined that we would need a beer for the journey to Wallgreens.
After paying another 3.75, we headed out.
The heat was a mean beast that day, and we had to shelter our lily-white skin from the constant barrage of UV rays. I donned a large Chewbacca outfit, while Chris went with the more trivial tiger costume.
Wait.
Nevermind, that was actually another trip.
Anyway. So, then we walked to Wallgreens.
On the way, Chris decided it was imperative that he patron every 1.99 shop on the way. Apparently, his child wanted, nay, needed a Las Vegas shirt that cost a buck on the opposite end of Vegas.
And Chris needed sunglasses.
Oh, and a tank top that I'm sure his fiancé is using to wash a window as I write this.
"I'm starting to feel it."
This came from Chris. Now, when you're over the age of 17, you don't generally use this phrase when talking about alcohol. Ecstasy – sure. Bud Light – no. I was beginning to think my drinking buddy was not as formable that my later rambling would attest to.
This was around the time Chris and I walked into a dead end out into the middle of the street. I knew Chris was drunk when he ventured to climb a barrier up through bushes to get back to the main sidewalk.
After pulling Tarzan from the brush, we made our way to the sidewalk and I quickly lectured Chris on not getting me arrested for brush climbing.
Back on the concourse, we visited nine shops in search of a "killer deal" on sunglasses.
I'm not big on sunglasses and I don't understand why more people don't choose to squint.
Finally, Chris decided on the sunglasses we had seen an hour early and we were perusing the price of beer at five local merchants. I was adamant that Wallgreens would be cheaper and our journey ended there.
To my chagrin, Wallgreens sold everything BUT beer.
It was at this time I dropped to my knees and screeched "OH, THE HUMANITY."
We purchased beer from a store that also carried a wide variety of things to stab, shoot, spray, dismember, and burn any human that would dare to work at the register of said store.
I'm sure this comes in handy when you're out and about and need to pick up a pack of smokes, some milk, and a belt of throwing stars.
Chris got his glasses and I received a phone call.
It was Josh.
"Matt, we're at Barbary Coast with my Dad and Jim, you guys want to meet us? Dollar drinks-"
I hung up the phone, grabbed Chris by the lapels and shook him violently. "DOLLAR DRINKS!"
Imagine Saturday Night Fever as the following occurs.
Chris walks in, wearing shades, smoke and beer in one hand, and rack of beer over the shoulder like a Van Halen video. I'm surprised we didn't get kicked out for bringing our own juice.
But, when you're shilling out dollar drinks – what does it matter.
After waiting 45 minutes I finally got the waitresses attention. I ordered eleven beers and we sat down and discussed the Belmont stakes....and I just realized I left out Friday.
OK, well, I suppose this journal will now operate like a Quentin Tarrantino movie, with the scenes all screwed around.
Damnit. This is Chris' fault: "When do I make an appearance? When am I going to be in the blog?"
Ass.
Well, with that in mind, let's move to the next scene.
I'm hung over and staring at a penguin. It's 9 in the morning. I'm so hung over that pure screwdriver is seeping from my pores. The penguin mocks me. He squawks obscene gestures and humps a turtle nearby.
The putrid taste of cheap Barbary Coast OJ and vodka is still in my mouth after brushing my teeth nine times. The act of even summoning up this morning is making me sick now. In fact, I just puked on the Guy Who Sits Behind Me. He said "That's cool. I was going to wash this shirt tonight anyway."
A daisy chain of children walked by, and I grabbed one and shook her hard yelling "Don't become like me!"
I was quickly assaulted by the rest of the children who had purchased throwing stars and samurai swords from the liquor store. As the stars hit my belly a noxious gas made of pizza and vodka began hissing out of my body and when I opened my eyes I had killed the entire "Flamingo Garden" population of random animals.
But, most of this is hearsay.
We now cut to the next scene.
Walking into the room, I chanced upon the mirror and found that the pizza had dripped cheese runoff all over my shirt. I sat in my own filth and began eating. Later, Shanna came in and the absurdity of me eating a pizza on a desk with stains all over my clothes while watching CNN out of the corner of my eye hit us like a brick.
Lord. I'm sick. Need to go home. Bored. I have the day off tomorrow. Coffee is cold. Need oxygen, pure oxygen. They sold it in Vegas. Running out the clock. Need to get an hour of writing in. Realize I have no plans for my day off. Must eat Cheetos and watch daytime TV. Play scrabble. Why did I just wish an employee a "good night" at 11.40?
P.S. P.S.
Until the Morning's Gone
I'm here to fix the crappa
Hello? Anyone home? Fix-it guy. I'm here to fix the crappa.
Oh, there you are. Hey, I'm Jim.
No thanks, coffee and me don't mix so good.
Uh huh. OK. So, where's your crappa?
You know, the crappa, where ya shit floats.
Uh, yeah, in there. Great.
Whoa! What a crappa! Is that ivory?
Good fuck, that's a helluva crappa! Man, I can't believe this. Is this a Kohler?
Really? Yeah, I heard a those. Nice crappas.
All right, let me see here: ya crappas been runnin all day, uh?
K, well, usually the problem here is that you got shit all cloggin up the – hey, is this anal lube?
Wha? C'mon, ya got it sittin' out right here and all. Are you like into that?
Hey, whoa, babe! Let's not get all crazy in here-uh! K, K, let's just fix the crappa and forget it.
All right, let me go ahead and try to plunge the fucka. Man, look at that – you been eatin' a lot a bran?
K, sorry, I guess I won't talk. Oh, crap! Lookit that! Who flushed the condom? You can't flush a condom! Getoutta here-uh!
K, sorry, sorry. All right, it looks like I'm gonna have to take out the snake – don't get excited, babe, it's not for you. Ha, ha.
K, K, sorry.
Let's just ease the snake on into the crappa and viola! Crappa fixed!
Hello? Anyone home? Fix-it guy. I'm here to fix the crappa.
Oh, there you are. Hey, I'm Jim.
No thanks, coffee and me don't mix so good.
Uh huh. OK. So, where's your crappa?
You know, the crappa, where ya shit floats.
Uh, yeah, in there. Great.
Whoa! What a crappa! Is that ivory?
Good fuck, that's a helluva crappa! Man, I can't believe this. Is this a Kohler?
Really? Yeah, I heard a those. Nice crappas.
All right, let me see here: ya crappas been runnin all day, uh?
K, well, usually the problem here is that you got shit all cloggin up the – hey, is this anal lube?
Wha? C'mon, ya got it sittin' out right here and all. Are you like into that?
Hey, whoa, babe! Let's not get all crazy in here-uh! K, K, let's just fix the crappa and forget it.
All right, let me go ahead and try to plunge the fucka. Man, look at that – you been eatin' a lot a bran?
K, sorry, I guess I won't talk. Oh, crap! Lookit that! Who flushed the condom? You can't flush a condom! Getoutta here-uh!
K, sorry, sorry. All right, it looks like I'm gonna have to take out the snake – don't get excited, babe, it's not for you. Ha, ha.
K, K, sorry.
Let's just ease the snake on into the crappa and viola! Crappa fixed!
Party Till the Morning
The Christians and the Jews are Fighting Over my Love
That's right. Everyday I get a personals email from either the Christian Singles or the Jewish Singles. Choices are nice, but I'm skeptical about the one from Jewish Singles, as the woman in the photo, that looks as if she's totally falling in love with the guy she's running in the park with, is wearing a necklace with a cross on it.
Now, maybe this is a Jews for Jesus singles ad, but they should warn me. These conflicting religions make it very hard to plan for dates during the holidays.
Not that I would sign up for any of these garbage dating services. No, I have done it before and my headline of "I OWN A PORSCHE" didn't even attract anyone. I suppose I should have tried harder, but then again, I hate dating.
Showing up to a job interview at TGIFridays on a Saturday night smacks of schizophrenia.
Besides, I've been laid in the last month, so I'm not hard up. I guess I do miss the mutual companionship that only eating grilled cheese and drinking Pepsi on a Sunday while watching Iron Chef has to offer, but then again, I don't miss the constant holiday activities to see friends and relatives that you have no interest in.
The next woman I date should just get the holiday season over for me buy wrapping me in a big box like a stripper and presenting me to all her friends and family on Christmas Eve. That way, the worst is over with and they've seen me in all my glory. Oh, yeah, and I'd be naked.
That's right. Everyday I get a personals email from either the Christian Singles or the Jewish Singles. Choices are nice, but I'm skeptical about the one from Jewish Singles, as the woman in the photo, that looks as if she's totally falling in love with the guy she's running in the park with, is wearing a necklace with a cross on it.
Now, maybe this is a Jews for Jesus singles ad, but they should warn me. These conflicting religions make it very hard to plan for dates during the holidays.
Not that I would sign up for any of these garbage dating services. No, I have done it before and my headline of "I OWN A PORSCHE" didn't even attract anyone. I suppose I should have tried harder, but then again, I hate dating.
Showing up to a job interview at TGIFridays on a Saturday night smacks of schizophrenia.
Besides, I've been laid in the last month, so I'm not hard up. I guess I do miss the mutual companionship that only eating grilled cheese and drinking Pepsi on a Sunday while watching Iron Chef has to offer, but then again, I don't miss the constant holiday activities to see friends and relatives that you have no interest in.
The next woman I date should just get the holiday season over for me buy wrapping me in a big box like a stripper and presenting me to all her friends and family on Christmas Eve. That way, the worst is over with and they've seen me in all my glory. Oh, yeah, and I'd be naked.
Put Your Mind Into It!
You can do anything you want, if you put your mind to it
It's true.
A lot of people like to tell you what you can and can't do. Sometimes it's even that little man inside you telling you what's possible and what isn't. Either way, they're wrong.
You can do anything you like, if you put your mind to it and start ignoring those who say otherwise. In fact, the meaning of life is proving them wrong.
So, I think it might be beneficial to us all if we write down (notepad, blog, email) a list of things we would all like to accomplish that we've been told we can't.
The real evil in this world is other people's perception of reality becoming your own. Don't let the nogoodniks ruin your time here; don't waste this gift.
Here's a list of 100 things I would like, nay, WILL do in my lifetime no matter what anyone says.
God bless,
1. Become an astronaut
2. Walk from coast to coast
3. Write a novel
4. Win the Gold in Olympic diving
5. Lactate
6. Give birth to kittens
7. Eat Mt. Rainier in one sitting
8. Throw a Lake Washington across the Pacific
9. Make love to a star system
10. Write a poem using only vowels
11. Create a theme park using the bones of John Lennon
12. Plant a tree on Mt. Everest
13. Sing backup for Aretha Franklin
14. Shake hands with Robert Bork
15. Ingest my own body
16. Create an exit plan for Iraq
17. Become Lyndon Johnson for a day
18. Make horseradish sauce out of clay
19. Eat a delicious slice of pizza off a plate made out of pizza
20. Change the lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner to include the line "And a fag is Fred Astair"
21. Put an end to slurs against all people, even fags
22. Change my name to Margaret Masterson
23. End poverty by turning deserts in to pop tarts (I bet you thought I would say desserts)
24. Devour the brains that shot out of JFK's head
25. Make love to nothing at all
26. Sell hotdogs and soda in a session of congress
27. Be the man to rip the mask off George W. Bush to find that he's actually the diabolical caretaker of the wax museum
28. Take a date to Tulsa
29. Grow a beard made out of fine gold and then contract syphilis from Bette Midler
30. Change the alphabet to include the letter ampersand
31. Implant myself into Tom Cruise's stomach so that I can leap out, tearing his insides out like Alien
32. Yodel a 50 Cent song underwater during an air raid in Nairobi
33. Sell the Brooklyn Bridge to rube, then realize that I really owned the Brooklyn Bridge and think to myself "Oh, brother, what have I done?"
34. Poop out Ben Kenobi
35. Develop an Otter Pop that tastes like Fish and Chips
36. Drink malt liquor out of the skull of Easy E
37. Cut the Earth in half and hollow out one side for the world's biggest pool
38. Make an abstract painting of an abstract painting...then poop on it
39. Go back in time and take third grade again with all the knowledge that I possess now and at the end of the year scream at the councilor "LEARNING DISABILITY MY ASS, LOOK AT MY GENIUS TIME TESTS NOW!"
40. Create a cell phone that works
41. Create a President that works
42. Take a month's vacation, as President, right before a major attack on the United States and then reap the benefits of the attack in the next election and thereafter
43. Incite a blogger to take me down from their favorites list because of my political beliefs
44. Hunt Oprah Winfrey for sport
45. Create a crime dram that never once uses a detailed CG view of the insides of a human body or a bullet entering the human body
46. Drill a hole through the earth and then piss down it and see what happens
47. Travel forward in time and tell everyone that I'm Jesus, they'll believe this because I'll have a beard
48. Finally terminate that whiny brat John Conner
49. Change the name of Frosted Flakes to Bobby Bonilla
50. Become the first white NBA star
51. Scale myself down to one inch and reap the benefits of living the rest of my life off a large pizza and a gallon of gas
52. Find out why the Beatles get more fame than Pink Floyd
53. Become a Cucina Cucina for two hours
54. Tubing (it's really hard to explain)
55. Become President and rule that anyone who watches reality shows are terrorists
56. Send the terrorists into orbit
57. Fight enemy terrorists in space
58. Declare "Mission Accomplished" atop the Millennium Falcon with a huge hard on, even though the terrorists are regrouping on Mars
59. Make passionate love to Chewbacca
60. Fist Goldie Hawn
61. Declare my penis a national monument
62. Retrieve the Lost Ark from Dagobah
63. Have a sit down dinner with TV's Fran Drescher
64. Find out whatever happened to Ed Begley Jr. and then beat him like a gong
65. Create a Barnes and Nobel that sells only lumber
66. Pick that wickedly funny mind of Bob Novak
67. Be a lesbian for a day
68. OK, be a lesbian for the rest of my life
69. Create a small moon out of all the centers of Oreo cookies everywhere
70. Speak Japanese with a Chinese tongue
71. Create the world's first landmine that makes you feel really super good when you step on it
72. Sell my landmine technology to India
73. Dance on the ceiling
74. By the power of Valtronon, make the lithosphere flow! FLOW!
75. Declare war on the Boy Scouts of America
76. List midgets as a national resource
77. Cane the next person who talks to me
78. Eat your head – you, reading this, I'm going to eat your head!
79. Make the final three episodes of Star Wars – the ones where I make passionate love to Chewbacca and Leia at the same time
80. Figure out how to spell what I think is Leia
81. Fart pure anthrax
82. Let's just say the Original Recipe will be mine: Matt 1, Colonel 0
83. (This is a hidden track and is 30 minutes after the end of the album)
84. To not be alarmed when there's a bussel in my hedgerow
85. Alert the crew of Holodeck 9
86. Create a Hungry Man dinner that consists of only Big League Chew
87. Give Garbage Pail Kids the Movie an Oscar in retrospect
88. End the career of Julia Roberts with a large, flaming zeppelin
89. Be a doctor and tell someone that their baby is doing fine and then say that you're just joking – the baby is doing better than fine, the baby is rock legend Lou Reed
90. Expect the unexpected and then when it doesn't happen sue all those damn movie companies
91. Take "Dr." Phil and shove his limbs down his own throat and hang his ball-like body from an awning and play "Dr." Phil piñata
92. Find a way to explain that I hate Michael Moore, but really appreciate what he's doing
93. Have all my constitutional rights granted
94. Beat the living shit out of the Midas Man
95. Scour the Earth for delicious apple sauce made of the finest apples around
96. Create a beer that makes you lose weight, then hide that beer in a pyramid in Egypt and turn it all into this reality show where I drink the weight loss beer in the pyramid and shoot anyone who comes near me looking for my beer and I'll call it Survivor: Pyramid
97. Poison the Earth with a gas that's totally made of only carbs so that everyone will become fatter than me because I have this special suit that filters out the microscopic carbs, yo
98. Discover that Love is the only one true religion (aaahhhhhh)
99. Find out that most of the population, even with the Love knowledge, still wants to be Christian, Muslim, Mormon, etc. and hate
100. Finally reveal that I am God and then you're all like "Dude, I've been reading God's blog for years, I never would have guessed he was God, but now it all makes sense – praise thee!"
It's true.
A lot of people like to tell you what you can and can't do. Sometimes it's even that little man inside you telling you what's possible and what isn't. Either way, they're wrong.
You can do anything you like, if you put your mind to it and start ignoring those who say otherwise. In fact, the meaning of life is proving them wrong.
So, I think it might be beneficial to us all if we write down (notepad, blog, email) a list of things we would all like to accomplish that we've been told we can't.
The real evil in this world is other people's perception of reality becoming your own. Don't let the nogoodniks ruin your time here; don't waste this gift.
Here's a list of 100 things I would like, nay, WILL do in my lifetime no matter what anyone says.
God bless,
1. Become an astronaut
2. Walk from coast to coast
3. Write a novel
4. Win the Gold in Olympic diving
5. Lactate
6. Give birth to kittens
7. Eat Mt. Rainier in one sitting
8. Throw a Lake Washington across the Pacific
9. Make love to a star system
10. Write a poem using only vowels
11. Create a theme park using the bones of John Lennon
12. Plant a tree on Mt. Everest
13. Sing backup for Aretha Franklin
14. Shake hands with Robert Bork
15. Ingest my own body
16. Create an exit plan for Iraq
17. Become Lyndon Johnson for a day
18. Make horseradish sauce out of clay
19. Eat a delicious slice of pizza off a plate made out of pizza
20. Change the lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner to include the line "And a fag is Fred Astair"
21. Put an end to slurs against all people, even fags
22. Change my name to Margaret Masterson
23. End poverty by turning deserts in to pop tarts (I bet you thought I would say desserts)
24. Devour the brains that shot out of JFK's head
25. Make love to nothing at all
26. Sell hotdogs and soda in a session of congress
27. Be the man to rip the mask off George W. Bush to find that he's actually the diabolical caretaker of the wax museum
28. Take a date to Tulsa
29. Grow a beard made out of fine gold and then contract syphilis from Bette Midler
30. Change the alphabet to include the letter ampersand
31. Implant myself into Tom Cruise's stomach so that I can leap out, tearing his insides out like Alien
32. Yodel a 50 Cent song underwater during an air raid in Nairobi
33. Sell the Brooklyn Bridge to rube, then realize that I really owned the Brooklyn Bridge and think to myself "Oh, brother, what have I done?"
34. Poop out Ben Kenobi
35. Develop an Otter Pop that tastes like Fish and Chips
36. Drink malt liquor out of the skull of Easy E
37. Cut the Earth in half and hollow out one side for the world's biggest pool
38. Make an abstract painting of an abstract painting...then poop on it
39. Go back in time and take third grade again with all the knowledge that I possess now and at the end of the year scream at the councilor "LEARNING DISABILITY MY ASS, LOOK AT MY GENIUS TIME TESTS NOW!"
40. Create a cell phone that works
41. Create a President that works
42. Take a month's vacation, as President, right before a major attack on the United States and then reap the benefits of the attack in the next election and thereafter
43. Incite a blogger to take me down from their favorites list because of my political beliefs
44. Hunt Oprah Winfrey for sport
45. Create a crime dram that never once uses a detailed CG view of the insides of a human body or a bullet entering the human body
46. Drill a hole through the earth and then piss down it and see what happens
47. Travel forward in time and tell everyone that I'm Jesus, they'll believe this because I'll have a beard
48. Finally terminate that whiny brat John Conner
49. Change the name of Frosted Flakes to Bobby Bonilla
50. Become the first white NBA star
51. Scale myself down to one inch and reap the benefits of living the rest of my life off a large pizza and a gallon of gas
52. Find out why the Beatles get more fame than Pink Floyd
53. Become a Cucina Cucina for two hours
54. Tubing (it's really hard to explain)
55. Become President and rule that anyone who watches reality shows are terrorists
56. Send the terrorists into orbit
57. Fight enemy terrorists in space
58. Declare "Mission Accomplished" atop the Millennium Falcon with a huge hard on, even though the terrorists are regrouping on Mars
59. Make passionate love to Chewbacca
60. Fist Goldie Hawn
61. Declare my penis a national monument
62. Retrieve the Lost Ark from Dagobah
63. Have a sit down dinner with TV's Fran Drescher
64. Find out whatever happened to Ed Begley Jr. and then beat him like a gong
65. Create a Barnes and Nobel that sells only lumber
66. Pick that wickedly funny mind of Bob Novak
67. Be a lesbian for a day
68. OK, be a lesbian for the rest of my life
69. Create a small moon out of all the centers of Oreo cookies everywhere
70. Speak Japanese with a Chinese tongue
71. Create the world's first landmine that makes you feel really super good when you step on it
72. Sell my landmine technology to India
73. Dance on the ceiling
74. By the power of Valtronon, make the lithosphere flow! FLOW!
75. Declare war on the Boy Scouts of America
76. List midgets as a national resource
77. Cane the next person who talks to me
78. Eat your head – you, reading this, I'm going to eat your head!
79. Make the final three episodes of Star Wars – the ones where I make passionate love to Chewbacca and Leia at the same time
80. Figure out how to spell what I think is Leia
81. Fart pure anthrax
82. Let's just say the Original Recipe will be mine: Matt 1, Colonel 0
83. (This is a hidden track and is 30 minutes after the end of the album)
84. To not be alarmed when there's a bussel in my hedgerow
85. Alert the crew of Holodeck 9
86. Create a Hungry Man dinner that consists of only Big League Chew
87. Give Garbage Pail Kids the Movie an Oscar in retrospect
88. End the career of Julia Roberts with a large, flaming zeppelin
89. Be a doctor and tell someone that their baby is doing fine and then say that you're just joking – the baby is doing better than fine, the baby is rock legend Lou Reed
90. Expect the unexpected and then when it doesn't happen sue all those damn movie companies
91. Take "Dr." Phil and shove his limbs down his own throat and hang his ball-like body from an awning and play "Dr." Phil piñata
92. Find a way to explain that I hate Michael Moore, but really appreciate what he's doing
93. Have all my constitutional rights granted
94. Beat the living shit out of the Midas Man
95. Scour the Earth for delicious apple sauce made of the finest apples around
96. Create a beer that makes you lose weight, then hide that beer in a pyramid in Egypt and turn it all into this reality show where I drink the weight loss beer in the pyramid and shoot anyone who comes near me looking for my beer and I'll call it Survivor: Pyramid
97. Poison the Earth with a gas that's totally made of only carbs so that everyone will become fatter than me because I have this special suit that filters out the microscopic carbs, yo
98. Discover that Love is the only one true religion (aaahhhhhh)
99. Find out that most of the population, even with the Love knowledge, still wants to be Christian, Muslim, Mormon, etc. and hate
100. Finally reveal that I am God and then you're all like "Dude, I've been reading God's blog for years, I never would have guessed he was God, but now it all makes sense – praise thee!"
Boogie in Your Butt
It smells like potatoes in here
So, Big Red is cooking a potato. It's a good smell, the potato, and I enjoy it.
It seems the potato is done. That probably means she'll soon eat it.
You can when someone is on a diet – potato and salsa. They stink of it. They reek of it.
An ex of mine went on some sort of diet where she had all these little meals she could have. Like in the morning it would be an egg and an English muffin. Then, for lunch it was chicken. Then, for dinner it was a potato with salsa. That meant that I had to eat the potato with salsa as well. I guess that's what that smell reminds me of. I got totally sick of potatoes and salsa, as I recall.
It got so that was the only thing to eat in the house. But, since I wasn't on a diet I would load it up with olives and cheese and peppers and hamburger and a slice of pizza and another potato and then French fries and.....
Man, not until I started writing about it did I realize that's what that smell reminded me of.
Oh, another good story about that particular woman and food: she made meatballs once, ran out of milk and used eggnog.
I remember biting into a meatball and thinking "this tastes...seasonal....what the???? Wait....nutmeg? No, um....." It took me ten minutes and a whole meatball to figure it out. When asked, she became super defensive and acted like I didn't like her experimental cooking.
But, I have become sentimental. The holidays are not for sentiment, they are for buying shit and I have bought loads.
See, my car was hit and I made 2040.00$ out of it and I have spent that wad down to 175.00$. I bought gifts for the family and myself. I also paid some bills and got a new battery for my car. Oh, and I drank a bunch.
No, not really. I have curbed my drinking quite a bit. In fact, I am actually sober right now.
Now, mind you I'm at work, but it's a big step.
Lord. I don't know if anyone has seen this yet, but Budweiser has a Red Bull beer. It tastes like Red Bull. That's it. There's no distinguishable beer taste. Which pretty much means it's being marketed to teenagers.
I saw Jay Buhner last night at Costco.....oh, and some kid threw up in line....um.....that's all for now.
So, Big Red is cooking a potato. It's a good smell, the potato, and I enjoy it.
It seems the potato is done. That probably means she'll soon eat it.
You can when someone is on a diet – potato and salsa. They stink of it. They reek of it.
An ex of mine went on some sort of diet where she had all these little meals she could have. Like in the morning it would be an egg and an English muffin. Then, for lunch it was chicken. Then, for dinner it was a potato with salsa. That meant that I had to eat the potato with salsa as well. I guess that's what that smell reminds me of. I got totally sick of potatoes and salsa, as I recall.
It got so that was the only thing to eat in the house. But, since I wasn't on a diet I would load it up with olives and cheese and peppers and hamburger and a slice of pizza and another potato and then French fries and.....
Man, not until I started writing about it did I realize that's what that smell reminded me of.
Oh, another good story about that particular woman and food: she made meatballs once, ran out of milk and used eggnog.
I remember biting into a meatball and thinking "this tastes...seasonal....what the???? Wait....nutmeg? No, um....." It took me ten minutes and a whole meatball to figure it out. When asked, she became super defensive and acted like I didn't like her experimental cooking.
But, I have become sentimental. The holidays are not for sentiment, they are for buying shit and I have bought loads.
See, my car was hit and I made 2040.00$ out of it and I have spent that wad down to 175.00$. I bought gifts for the family and myself. I also paid some bills and got a new battery for my car. Oh, and I drank a bunch.
No, not really. I have curbed my drinking quite a bit. In fact, I am actually sober right now.
Now, mind you I'm at work, but it's a big step.
Lord. I don't know if anyone has seen this yet, but Budweiser has a Red Bull beer. It tastes like Red Bull. That's it. There's no distinguishable beer taste. Which pretty much means it's being marketed to teenagers.
I saw Jay Buhner last night at Costco.....oh, and some kid threw up in line....um.....that's all for now.
Hot Las Vegas Nights!
Las Vegas 7
"Eckert, we're gonna get fucked up tonight."
- Chris Weisberg
Greetings.
Well, this morning I had the unfortunate experience of being ID'd in the car on the way to work.
Yes, it seems Bubba Clinton will soon be next door signing copies of his new book "My Life" or whatever. There's a line outside the warehouse a few hundred deep. They have the lawn chairs out, the whole bit. I haven't seen anything like it since my ex set up a free fuck tent after I slept with her sister.
There's something about celebrity that even the most cynical cannot deny. Hell, I might even walk over there, telling myself I'm just going to get a hot dog and coke. Meanwhile, deep in my subconscious I'll know that I want to just get a glimpse of a man whose picture is in the dictionary.
Maybe it's just me. I'm not sure.
Sure, I hate the idea of celebrity and how some toolshed is treated like a prince because of this, that or the other thing. But, hell, it's not like I'll ever hobnob with these folks by their own accord. So, yes, I'll walk over at one and see if I can take a gander at the man. See if he's shorter than what you would expect. Maybe meet him.
Yes, I can see it now.
I walk to get a hot dog and a limo almost hits me. The driver comes out to see if I'm alright and then a hand appears out the window, waving me in.
Inside it's Bill. He offers his apologies and we smoke cigars and drink Scotch. We talk about our mothers and just what went wrong in 2000. We share a touching moment as we talk of our memories of 9/11. We trade jokes about the current monkey in office. Bill soon is so moved by my words of peace and wisdom that he offers me a job as a Minister of Peace in his Harlem offices. Soon, I'm on a plane to New York with trashy Alabama women who know how to please the Minister of Peace.
A month later, I'm lighting bottle rockets at the Republican convention with Bill and Ted Kennedy. We get drunk and go to a strip club and end the evening by writing DON'T on Vote Bush posters with a hooker's eyeliner.
But, we still have to end Vegas. I'm, frankly, tired of writing it. I'm sure you're probably tired of reading it. But, damnit, we must end this monstrosity. Why? Why not? Not a lot has happened since then. Sure, I could tell you about the night I was abducted by aliens from the planet Sagittarius and how they extracted "protein" from me to start a super human race of retarded bed bugs on the planet Caligula. But, first we must finish the epic journey that is Vegas.
When we left our heroes, Chris and Matt were in the Barbary Coast drinking dollar drinks with Jack, Josh, and Jim. Jack and Chris made some outrageous bet on Belmont and soon we were off to the hotel.
Chris and I quickly took a garbage can to the ice machine and filled Scott's sink with ice. We then filled the basin up with beers and began drinking heavily.
Josh came in and we began a Hot Tamale fight that left the entire carpet red with Tamale shrapnel.
Scott and Shanna arrived at some point and Scott walked the room like a general looking at his dead soldiers on a beach in France.
Scott is a fag. Plain and simple. If you ever need a killjoy, invite Scott when he's with a woman. If he was on his own, he might have thought it was funny. I don't know. But, I think the responsibility he preens around women damages his character to the extent that he's like hanging out with your grandpa that's seen three wars.
Scott, here's to you: fag!
In the hotel we found Joe had arrived. Joe is the closest I will ever come to celebrity and he is so far off he might as well be on Jupiter. Joe is a model and bit actor. If you squint and press pause you might see him on The View, Guiding Light, and Sex in the City. He usually has some good stories about drunks (the blonde slut on Sex in the City) and bitchy me-bags (Avril Lavine spl?).
He was with his new girlfriend, Rachel. Rachel was cool as hell and somehow put up with Joe's drunken friends. We made our way to the roulette tables and I proceeded to give the casino fifty bucks for no good reason at all.
We then went to the pool.
Woe to you, oh Earth and Sea: like two beached whales Chris and I flipped our enormous torsos into the pool and drank beer with the rest of the wedding party.
At one point a child tried to climb into Chris' belly button thinking it was the kid's pool. It was horrendous. I, myself, was climbed by three small children that thought I was some sort of water slide.
By this point Chris and I had been drinking since 11 and it was now fivish. We were probably 15 in. We decided that it would be imperative to get a nap in and.....somehow I got to my room and slept for an hour or so.
I woke up disappointed that it wasn't the next day. I really wanted to have a good nine hours between me and my next drink. But, that was not to be.
I quickly hammered a beer from the sink and took a shower.
It's important to shower frequently while drinking. It keeps you spry.
It was now onto the Hard Rock Hotel where I began drinking cran and vodka for the good of the people. A bachelorette party ascended on us and needed my boxers for their Wiccan rituals.
This happens a lot. Especially in Pioneer square. I always oblige as it's a good in to talk to lovely women. But, these women were ravenous. Most of the time, these parties will let you change in the bathroom. But, this group wanted my boxers and they wanted them RIGHT THEN AND THERE. What could I say? The women formed a crude wall around me and I dropped trow and boxers.
It wasn't until the next morning that I realized the middle of the Hard Rock was equipped with more cameras than a Japanese tour bus.
Yes, this was the closest I came to being arrested.
And, this wasn't the last time my schlong would see the light of day...or night, as it were.
I believe I blacked out at this point and the next thing I remember I was in the Barbary Coast with Weisberg spilling a drink on a coin machine.
We then adjourned to the outside for a breather when we came upon a crackhead bangin away on a Casio keyboard.
It wasn't that he wasn't trying, I think he just stole the instrument and was playing it the best he could.
I was becoming sick by then and ventured "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm playing for money."
"Hell of a job."
"Ah, fuck it!" and he ran his hand across the keys and turned the machine off.
Chris came out and inquired after good strip clubs.
Leave it to Chris to ask a homeless person where the good strip clubs are.
"Well, you look like a gentleman, I bet you want to go to the ritzy ones, huh?" He then looks at me. "But, you on the other hand, look like a crackhead."
Yes, it was then that a crackhead called me a crackhead.
He then explained to us how we could get "a ten dollar blowjob from the crackwhores down the street."
We parted company around then.
Inside, we played penny machines.
At one point, I swung my leg up to rest on my other leg and like a puppet with it's string crossed, I brought my hand down in the same motion as my leg and dumped a screwdriver on myself.
We soon got a table for the 1.99 breakfast.
The last thing I remember was staring at two plates of eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns accompanied by toast and six screwdrivers.
I tell you this: I will never drink a screwdriver again.
When I got in, I forgot that I had taken my boxers off and so went to sleep naked.
At some point Shanna got the sight of my whole package.
As she drifted off to sleep she whispered "The horror....the horror...."
Apparently, Scott got a good shot of my ass, and for that I apologize.
No, not really.
Peace.
"Eckert, we're gonna get fucked up tonight."
- Chris Weisberg
Greetings.
Well, this morning I had the unfortunate experience of being ID'd in the car on the way to work.
Yes, it seems Bubba Clinton will soon be next door signing copies of his new book "My Life" or whatever. There's a line outside the warehouse a few hundred deep. They have the lawn chairs out, the whole bit. I haven't seen anything like it since my ex set up a free fuck tent after I slept with her sister.
There's something about celebrity that even the most cynical cannot deny. Hell, I might even walk over there, telling myself I'm just going to get a hot dog and coke. Meanwhile, deep in my subconscious I'll know that I want to just get a glimpse of a man whose picture is in the dictionary.
Maybe it's just me. I'm not sure.
Sure, I hate the idea of celebrity and how some toolshed is treated like a prince because of this, that or the other thing. But, hell, it's not like I'll ever hobnob with these folks by their own accord. So, yes, I'll walk over at one and see if I can take a gander at the man. See if he's shorter than what you would expect. Maybe meet him.
Yes, I can see it now.
I walk to get a hot dog and a limo almost hits me. The driver comes out to see if I'm alright and then a hand appears out the window, waving me in.
Inside it's Bill. He offers his apologies and we smoke cigars and drink Scotch. We talk about our mothers and just what went wrong in 2000. We share a touching moment as we talk of our memories of 9/11. We trade jokes about the current monkey in office. Bill soon is so moved by my words of peace and wisdom that he offers me a job as a Minister of Peace in his Harlem offices. Soon, I'm on a plane to New York with trashy Alabama women who know how to please the Minister of Peace.
A month later, I'm lighting bottle rockets at the Republican convention with Bill and Ted Kennedy. We get drunk and go to a strip club and end the evening by writing DON'T on Vote Bush posters with a hooker's eyeliner.
But, we still have to end Vegas. I'm, frankly, tired of writing it. I'm sure you're probably tired of reading it. But, damnit, we must end this monstrosity. Why? Why not? Not a lot has happened since then. Sure, I could tell you about the night I was abducted by aliens from the planet Sagittarius and how they extracted "protein" from me to start a super human race of retarded bed bugs on the planet Caligula. But, first we must finish the epic journey that is Vegas.
When we left our heroes, Chris and Matt were in the Barbary Coast drinking dollar drinks with Jack, Josh, and Jim. Jack and Chris made some outrageous bet on Belmont and soon we were off to the hotel.
Chris and I quickly took a garbage can to the ice machine and filled Scott's sink with ice. We then filled the basin up with beers and began drinking heavily.
Josh came in and we began a Hot Tamale fight that left the entire carpet red with Tamale shrapnel.
Scott and Shanna arrived at some point and Scott walked the room like a general looking at his dead soldiers on a beach in France.
Scott is a fag. Plain and simple. If you ever need a killjoy, invite Scott when he's with a woman. If he was on his own, he might have thought it was funny. I don't know. But, I think the responsibility he preens around women damages his character to the extent that he's like hanging out with your grandpa that's seen three wars.
Scott, here's to you: fag!
In the hotel we found Joe had arrived. Joe is the closest I will ever come to celebrity and he is so far off he might as well be on Jupiter. Joe is a model and bit actor. If you squint and press pause you might see him on The View, Guiding Light, and Sex in the City. He usually has some good stories about drunks (the blonde slut on Sex in the City) and bitchy me-bags (Avril Lavine spl?).
He was with his new girlfriend, Rachel. Rachel was cool as hell and somehow put up with Joe's drunken friends. We made our way to the roulette tables and I proceeded to give the casino fifty bucks for no good reason at all.
We then went to the pool.
Woe to you, oh Earth and Sea: like two beached whales Chris and I flipped our enormous torsos into the pool and drank beer with the rest of the wedding party.
At one point a child tried to climb into Chris' belly button thinking it was the kid's pool. It was horrendous. I, myself, was climbed by three small children that thought I was some sort of water slide.
By this point Chris and I had been drinking since 11 and it was now fivish. We were probably 15 in. We decided that it would be imperative to get a nap in and.....somehow I got to my room and slept for an hour or so.
I woke up disappointed that it wasn't the next day. I really wanted to have a good nine hours between me and my next drink. But, that was not to be.
I quickly hammered a beer from the sink and took a shower.
It's important to shower frequently while drinking. It keeps you spry.
It was now onto the Hard Rock Hotel where I began drinking cran and vodka for the good of the people. A bachelorette party ascended on us and needed my boxers for their Wiccan rituals.
This happens a lot. Especially in Pioneer square. I always oblige as it's a good in to talk to lovely women. But, these women were ravenous. Most of the time, these parties will let you change in the bathroom. But, this group wanted my boxers and they wanted them RIGHT THEN AND THERE. What could I say? The women formed a crude wall around me and I dropped trow and boxers.
It wasn't until the next morning that I realized the middle of the Hard Rock was equipped with more cameras than a Japanese tour bus.
Yes, this was the closest I came to being arrested.
And, this wasn't the last time my schlong would see the light of day...or night, as it were.
I believe I blacked out at this point and the next thing I remember I was in the Barbary Coast with Weisberg spilling a drink on a coin machine.
We then adjourned to the outside for a breather when we came upon a crackhead bangin away on a Casio keyboard.
It wasn't that he wasn't trying, I think he just stole the instrument and was playing it the best he could.
I was becoming sick by then and ventured "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm playing for money."
"Hell of a job."
"Ah, fuck it!" and he ran his hand across the keys and turned the machine off.
Chris came out and inquired after good strip clubs.
Leave it to Chris to ask a homeless person where the good strip clubs are.
"Well, you look like a gentleman, I bet you want to go to the ritzy ones, huh?" He then looks at me. "But, you on the other hand, look like a crackhead."
Yes, it was then that a crackhead called me a crackhead.
He then explained to us how we could get "a ten dollar blowjob from the crackwhores down the street."
We parted company around then.
Inside, we played penny machines.
At one point, I swung my leg up to rest on my other leg and like a puppet with it's string crossed, I brought my hand down in the same motion as my leg and dumped a screwdriver on myself.
We soon got a table for the 1.99 breakfast.
The last thing I remember was staring at two plates of eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns accompanied by toast and six screwdrivers.
I tell you this: I will never drink a screwdriver again.
When I got in, I forgot that I had taken my boxers off and so went to sleep naked.
At some point Shanna got the sight of my whole package.
As she drifted off to sleep she whispered "The horror....the horror...."
Apparently, Scott got a good shot of my ass, and for that I apologize.
No, not really.
Peace.
Lesbians?
I'm wondering if my next door neighbors are lesbians.
Is that odd?
About a week ago these two hot women moved in next door to my apartment at the good ole Sevi. There's been no indication of anything that could tell me something about what they are like. I'm quite shy and the whole idea of introducing myself sounds nerdy as hell. So, I've been hoping like hell that I run into them when I take out my garbage.
This morning, however, I heard the one roommate say to the other "Have a great day" as she left for work/school/porno film.
So, I'm thinking that sounded odd. I mean, in the morning? With a roommate? Usually, people are in a shit mood in the morning and save the pleasantries until they're filled to the rim with Brim. But, this was a request for the other to have a great day? Also, normally roommates don't exactly lavish each other with niceties. Normally, they are usually sick of each other and cherish the moments the other one is gone.
"Have a great day!"
No, the only reason ANYONE would wish ANYONE a great day is if they were in love with them.
That's just my feeling and I'm probably wrong.
And what if they are lesbians? That's not exactly a boon for me. Lesbians, contrary to most porno movies, by definition don't sleep with men.
Also, they live next door, so any chance at sneaking a peak at them through their window is shot.
So, if they are lesbians, it means that I have two women living next door to me that will absolutely never sleep with me.
So, what's the point?
There is none. It's not Nasty Nights and I'm not going to walk into a three-way trying to borrow a cup of sugar.
Is that odd?
About a week ago these two hot women moved in next door to my apartment at the good ole Sevi. There's been no indication of anything that could tell me something about what they are like. I'm quite shy and the whole idea of introducing myself sounds nerdy as hell. So, I've been hoping like hell that I run into them when I take out my garbage.
This morning, however, I heard the one roommate say to the other "Have a great day" as she left for work/school/porno film.
So, I'm thinking that sounded odd. I mean, in the morning? With a roommate? Usually, people are in a shit mood in the morning and save the pleasantries until they're filled to the rim with Brim. But, this was a request for the other to have a great day? Also, normally roommates don't exactly lavish each other with niceties. Normally, they are usually sick of each other and cherish the moments the other one is gone.
"Have a great day!"
No, the only reason ANYONE would wish ANYONE a great day is if they were in love with them.
That's just my feeling and I'm probably wrong.
And what if they are lesbians? That's not exactly a boon for me. Lesbians, contrary to most porno movies, by definition don't sleep with men.
Also, they live next door, so any chance at sneaking a peak at them through their window is shot.
So, if they are lesbians, it means that I have two women living next door to me that will absolutely never sleep with me.
So, what's the point?
There is none. It's not Nasty Nights and I'm not going to walk into a three-way trying to borrow a cup of sugar.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Without Love
I'm a Major Pussy
I haven't been posting much cuz I'm addicted to Cynical C.
But, after an ugly night of no sleep, I figured I'd stop in.
So, my buddy Keith is in from Oklahoma and every time I see him we end up talking about the paranormal.
There's this story he always brings up that always creeps the fuck out of me and left me with the lights on last night.
Keith went to Washington State University. He was a big frat boy and one night some frat brothers came back to the house and were white as ghosts. There was like six of them, and they were of the typical frat mode: no imagination, void of dreams, and Republican-practical.
Generalizations are awesome.
No, but these guys, according to Keith, were not the type to even dream of paranormal expierences, much less talk about them.
Not only that, but they were all sober.
So, here's the reason I couldn't sleep last night:
The guys were walking back to the frat in pitch black darkness. WSU is located five hours away from Seattle, and an hour from Spokane (they like to think they are a major city).
My point is, it's out in the boonies. Now, they have electricity (since 1987), but there are parts of WSU (Poulman) that are pitch black when night falls. It's not like Seattle where the only place you can find pitch black is in the soul of Paul Allen or Bill Gates.
So, they're walking around and one of the guys notices a box of cigarettes on the ground and goes to grab. The others look on and as the guy's picking up the pack of cigarettes they all notice something behind him near the trees.
They explained the 8 foot man-like creature as "blacker than the pitch black of night." This is not to say the thing was of African descent. No, it's entire body looked like a black hole with a fine sillouhette of light around it making it into the shape of an 8 foot man.
To the right of the man's "head" was a glowing orb.
That's it.
The boys bolted back to the frat and after the initial explanation, none of them will talk about it.
So, I decided to be sober last night (my stomach was fermentating a slice of pizza in eight beers from the night before) and I found myself opening my eyes every five seconds expecting to find the reaper and orb from the story standing over me.
This lasted for two hours before I decided to turn a light on and finally fell asleep.
A good paranormal story can turn people into drunks.
I think the first time I heard this story is the first day of my ten year drunk.
Keith's a bastard and I hope an 8 foot ghoul eats his soul.
Tonight: I'm getting bombed (with the lights on).
Pleace,
Matt
I haven't been posting much cuz I'm addicted to Cynical C.
But, after an ugly night of no sleep, I figured I'd stop in.
So, my buddy Keith is in from Oklahoma and every time I see him we end up talking about the paranormal.
There's this story he always brings up that always creeps the fuck out of me and left me with the lights on last night.
Keith went to Washington State University. He was a big frat boy and one night some frat brothers came back to the house and were white as ghosts. There was like six of them, and they were of the typical frat mode: no imagination, void of dreams, and Republican-practical.
Generalizations are awesome.
No, but these guys, according to Keith, were not the type to even dream of paranormal expierences, much less talk about them.
Not only that, but they were all sober.
So, here's the reason I couldn't sleep last night:
The guys were walking back to the frat in pitch black darkness. WSU is located five hours away from Seattle, and an hour from Spokane (they like to think they are a major city).
My point is, it's out in the boonies. Now, they have electricity (since 1987), but there are parts of WSU (Poulman) that are pitch black when night falls. It's not like Seattle where the only place you can find pitch black is in the soul of Paul Allen or Bill Gates.
So, they're walking around and one of the guys notices a box of cigarettes on the ground and goes to grab. The others look on and as the guy's picking up the pack of cigarettes they all notice something behind him near the trees.
They explained the 8 foot man-like creature as "blacker than the pitch black of night." This is not to say the thing was of African descent. No, it's entire body looked like a black hole with a fine sillouhette of light around it making it into the shape of an 8 foot man.
To the right of the man's "head" was a glowing orb.
That's it.
The boys bolted back to the frat and after the initial explanation, none of them will talk about it.
So, I decided to be sober last night (my stomach was fermentating a slice of pizza in eight beers from the night before) and I found myself opening my eyes every five seconds expecting to find the reaper and orb from the story standing over me.
This lasted for two hours before I decided to turn a light on and finally fell asleep.
A good paranormal story can turn people into drunks.
I think the first time I heard this story is the first day of my ten year drunk.
Keith's a bastard and I hope an 8 foot ghoul eats his soul.
Tonight: I'm getting bombed (with the lights on).
Pleace,
Matt
Filled with Despair
Template to use when writing a blog.
So today I went out to (INSERT DESTINATION). It was me and (INSERT YOUR GAY ASS FRIEND) and we were (INSERT YOUR GAY ASS GAME PLAN).
(SAME DESTINATION) is soooooooo (ADJECTIVE). But, there's plenty of (INSERT WHATEVER SAD THING YOU LIVE FOR).
We were totally getting (STONED, DRUNK, CLOTHING, FOOD) when I noticed that (SAME GAY ASS FRIEND) was (BLOWING SOME DUDE, MAKING OUT WITH SOME CHICK, LOOKING AT A SHIRT AT BANANA REPUBLIC). I couldn't believe it!
So, I go up to (SAME GAY ASS FRIEND) and say (CAN I JOIN YOU, IS THAT YOUR SIZE)?
So (SHE, HE) looks at me and (SHE'S, HE'S) totally gagging. So, I'm like yeah, I know.
So, we leave and go to (DILLON'S, ANGIE'S, KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN) to get some food.
Well, on the way my car totally pops a tire and we're stranded at (A REST STOP, ARBY'S, SKATE KING). So, I'm all like (WHO CAN WE BLOW TO FIX THIS TIRE, DO WE HAVE ANY COKE LEFT, I'M CALLING MY PARENTS).
So, my (MOUTH, NOSE) is busy (BLOWING, SNIFFING, TALKING) and (SAME GAY ASS FRIEND) says we should just call a tow.
So, we call this lame ass tow truck driver who is super late and he's totally (FLIRTING, FUCKING, TALKING) to us and we're all like can you hurry up?
So, we get back to my place and we're both totally tired, but there's a party at (SNOOP'S, ALPHA BETA, KEITH ANDERSON'S). So, we get dressed and head out.
At the party this (ONE GUY, ONE GIRL) is totally hitting on me and I totally have a crush on (HIM, HER). So, we go upstairs and (MAKE OUT, FUCK, DONKEY PUNCH) for, like two hours.
It was soooooo amazing.
Well, I better go cuz I have to (CRAM FOR FINALS, GET TO WORK, CALL SPOUSE).
So today I went out to (INSERT DESTINATION). It was me and (INSERT YOUR GAY ASS FRIEND) and we were (INSERT YOUR GAY ASS GAME PLAN).
(SAME DESTINATION) is soooooooo (ADJECTIVE). But, there's plenty of (INSERT WHATEVER SAD THING YOU LIVE FOR).
We were totally getting (STONED, DRUNK, CLOTHING, FOOD) when I noticed that (SAME GAY ASS FRIEND) was (BLOWING SOME DUDE, MAKING OUT WITH SOME CHICK, LOOKING AT A SHIRT AT BANANA REPUBLIC). I couldn't believe it!
So, I go up to (SAME GAY ASS FRIEND) and say (CAN I JOIN YOU, IS THAT YOUR SIZE)?
So (SHE, HE) looks at me and (SHE'S, HE'S) totally gagging. So, I'm like yeah, I know.
So, we leave and go to (DILLON'S, ANGIE'S, KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN) to get some food.
Well, on the way my car totally pops a tire and we're stranded at (A REST STOP, ARBY'S, SKATE KING). So, I'm all like (WHO CAN WE BLOW TO FIX THIS TIRE, DO WE HAVE ANY COKE LEFT, I'M CALLING MY PARENTS).
So, my (MOUTH, NOSE) is busy (BLOWING, SNIFFING, TALKING) and (SAME GAY ASS FRIEND) says we should just call a tow.
So, we call this lame ass tow truck driver who is super late and he's totally (FLIRTING, FUCKING, TALKING) to us and we're all like can you hurry up?
So, we get back to my place and we're both totally tired, but there's a party at (SNOOP'S, ALPHA BETA, KEITH ANDERSON'S). So, we get dressed and head out.
At the party this (ONE GUY, ONE GIRL) is totally hitting on me and I totally have a crush on (HIM, HER). So, we go upstairs and (MAKE OUT, FUCK, DONKEY PUNCH) for, like two hours.
It was soooooo amazing.
Well, I better go cuz I have to (CRAM FOR FINALS, GET TO WORK, CALL SPOUSE).
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