Not a Pine, Nor an Apple...Just a Liar.

Wright Racism

2010-04-20T10:47:00.000-07:00

So here's a little gem I dug up from nearly two years ago. I wrote this article for my creative nonfiction class and presented it during a literature reading on campus. Sure, it's a bit outdated at this point, but the overall message still sadly rings true throughout the states. Enjoy.

Wright Racism

In the last few weeks, racial accusations surrounding Reverend Jeremiah Wright have been littered throughout the media. In mid-March, I couldn’t walk past a television set without hearing clips of what the reverend has said in his sermons for the past ten years. The most commonly heard quotes generally had to do with America and its shaky racial heritage. Basically, Wright brought up the fact that the African American is still being oppressed today by white America, and that it’s time for a change. Endless news coverage later, and it is apparent that White America is not ready for said change.

What Wright said about the American government and its treatment of African Americans is nothing new to me. Yes, the government has failed the African American in the last two-hundred years. Sure, slavery was eventually abolished, but it took another, oh, seventy five years or so for African Americans to become humanized in American society. I can only imagine the things said across the country during the push of the civil rights movement. “First we lose our free labor, and now they want to be able to eat with us!? I know I don’t want no blacks eating in the same diner as me and my dog. Fuck that!” Et cetera.

I think the most humorous thing about the whole ordeal is the fact that whites have the nerve to call the reverend a racist. Sure, what he said about America and its racial stance is not flattering. Hell, it makes us (Caucasians) look like a bunch of hate mongering racists. Yet for the most part, he’s right. Growing up in poverty stricken rural towns all my life (minus a brief stint in Washington D.C. for my first three years on earth, which, sadly to say, I do not remember) has taught me that most people do not view all men as created equal. Shit, you’re lucky to find someone out in the sticks that even views women as equal. These areas are (for the most part) so backward that even Wal-Mart wouldn’t build within a twenty mile radius. We had K-Mart. Not even a Super K-Mart, just K-Mart. Yes, it was that bad.

I was driving to campus earlier this semester and saw a bumper sticker that represented the confederate flag. After choking down the immediate gag-reflex I felt in my stomach and throat, I began to tailgate in order to see what the sticker said. “IT’S NOT HATE, IT’S HISTORY,” was plastered over the flag of the confederacy. If I’ve learned anything over the past 22 years, it’s that if you have to justify something, then it’s probably not right to begin with, and I immediately began thinking of bumper stickers I’d like to put over the confederate one. “I’M NOT RACIST, I JUST HATE NIGGERS” immediately came to mind. Same thing, different wording. I followed the hate-truck nearly to school grounds, praying it would turn onto campus so I could wait gleefully till whoever was in it left, key the shit out of it, and move to a different parking lot. Sadly, such dreams did not come true[1].

I still remember the first time I ever encountered racism face to face. I was five, and had just started kindergarten at Washington Elementary in Apollo. It was bathroom break time, conveniently placed between lunch and naptime so that there was less chance of someone pissing all over the cardboard thin foam that Mrs. Rometo idealistically referred to as sleeping mats. I simply like to think of them now as something that uncomfortably separated child from dirty floor, but I guess the school really couldn’t be spending much money on something that would more than likely be peed on and thrown away every month. It was either plushy mats and no juice boxes, or juice boxes and pizza boxes to sleep on. I’d still take the juice boxes.

During bathroom break that day, my five-year-old classmate Steve called the only black child in the entire kindergarten-through-six-grade-elementary-school a nigger. Being that I was only in kindergarten at the time, I had no idea what the word meant, but soon realized it had no positive aspects when Jesse (the accused) punched Steve in the face. Mrs. Rometo soon arrived, yelling at both boys for their behavior. Steve was crying because his face was swollen, but I couldn’t figure out why Jesse was crying as well. She asked for a recounting of the situation, and I, being a firsthand witness, was asked to confirm whether Jesse’s story was true. I said “yes,” and repeated the word that Steve had called him. Now that I think back on it, it was kind of fucked up for her to even ask me to repeat “nigger” and not simply take Jesse’s word for it. Rural PA, ladies and gents.

I still had no idea what nigger meant, and Mrs. Rometo was in no hurry to explain its significance (or lack thereof). I only knew it was a big deal from the fact that both Jesse and Steve’s parents showed up and a shouting argument could be heard in the hallway. Also, I don’t believe Jesse ever stopped crying until he left. I pondered what the word might mean all day, since the idea of Jesse being different never really occurred to me. He was more than likely the first African American I had ever seen in my life (or at least that I can recall), and he seemed just like every other small child in the class. I guess I have my mother to thank for that, since she apparently brought me up in a house vacant of racial hatred. I wish I could say the same now, but I can only guess that being old, white, and Republican does something destructive to the mind.

It wasn’t till I got home that day that I found out what nigger actually meant. My mother told me it was something extremely cruel that should never be repeated. EVER. That was a good enough explanation for me, and I probably forgot about the word till I hit junior high. While this may seem unbelievable to some, I’ve never had any racial attitudes at all in life, and was therefore somewhat protected from hatred till the big move from sixth to seventh grade. Whoever came up with the idea of taking children who have been sheltered for seven years in elementary school and suddenly throwing them together with other 12-15 year olds from a 20-mile radius should be fired. In other words, I learned what sex, drugs, and racism were in my first three days of seventh grade.

While I could easily wrap my head around hand jobs and roaches, hatred for people with different skin colors or ethnicities still had trouble penetrating the soft tissue of my brain. Why? What was the point? We’re all human, I found myself saying repeatedly. But common sense and rational thinking have problems trying to work themselves into heavily influenced redneck minds. The real problem isn’t the kids arguing that “daddy says niggas are nothing but trouble,” it’s daddy himself that’s the problem. Racism, as far as I know, is not something you’re born with. If it is, it must be a social/economic disease that only affects the uneducated and poor (I’m only one of those so I apparently escaped). Jr. didn’t pop out of the womb dripping placenta and words that would make the KKK proud.

As firm as my stance against racism is, however, I can’t honestly say I’ve taken fool-proof steps to avoid it. Living in these areas over the years has forced me to begrudgingly accept friendships with those less “open-minded” than myself. To be quite (and unfortunately) honest, I have several friends who would probably join the KKK if they were bored and had nothing better to do. Scratch that, I consider the really racist ones “acquaintances,” not friends…it makes me feel a little better about myself when I think of them in that way, at least.

In fact, a really good, good friend of mine (second best friend, maybe?) was extremely racist until he came to UPG last semester and started spending less time with the rednecks at home and more time with the left-wingers here on campus. By mid-March, he was considering voting for Obama, even[2]. Yet when word got out about his new mindset at a party in Vandergrift a short time later, said friend was instantly ridiculed.

At this point in the paper, it’d probably be appropriate to state a few of the things said to my friend in response to his new voting choice, mainly to help provide examples of just how racist some of these people can be. However, most of the things uttered that night I’ve managed to block out of my memory over the past three weeks, and I honestly don’t want to have to bring them back out again…especially considering these words were coming out of the ignorant minds of my friends, err, “acquaintances.”

Maybe I’m a bit hypocritical.

I do catch myself locking the doors to the car when driving through Wilkinsburg. If I see a large group of black men standing on a street corner, I automatically reach for the button, clicking it two or three times to make sure it’s locked. Is that racist or just being safe? Well, I don’t do it when there’s a large group of white people on the corner, so there’s your answer.

I thank the media for this response, mainly because it’s a proven fact that they report more minority crime on the news in spite of the fact that there’s an almost equal mix of white and black crime every day. Yet even though I know this little piece of information, I still find myself reaching for the button at times. And when I do, I feel like such a dirty bastard because of it. It’s like I’m not even thinking when I do it; it’s always after the fact that I realize just how nonsensical I’m being.

Even my best friend who goes to Slippery Rock University manages to spit out a few stereotypical phrases about African Americans every once in awhile. This comes as somewhat of a shock to me considering I’ve known the kid for over ten years now and never knew him to be racist. When I occasionally travel up north to visit him, he always seems to end up saying something negative about the black community in front of his roommates. I mean, he owns the first season of “The Boondocks” on DVD (so do I, Aaron McGruder = genius) so I always question him about why he says some of the things he does. His response, un-shockingly, went something like this: “All my roommates hate niggers, so I have to say something every once in awhile to make them think I do too.”

This shouldn’t have surprised me, and it didn’t. Group mentality has always been a bitch of a monster, and I lay most of the blame on this cluster-fuck of a human response mechanism for racism in the first place. If someone hadn’t come up with the idea of hating others because of their skin color in the first place, no one would have ever followed.

I almost hate myself for saying that racism is nothing more than group mentality at the lowest level, but I truly think it is. Sure, I’m metaphorically comparing hate speech to fashion trends but how else can you explain racism? As I stated before, some ignorant fuck probably thought “hey, why should I like a human being with darker skin than my own?” and then spread the word. Unbelievable when you think about it. I almost feel dumber just typing that sentence out. I mean, really, has there been a less sensible reason for hating someone other than skin color? I doubt it, but religion would come in at a close second.

Yet this is America. Land of the free…and obviously the easily gullible. Or at the very least, naïve. Perhaps growing up in rural areas has helped me see the hatred that’s out there and that’s much more prevalent than most people would like to believe. For all the Americans in denial, I think Reverend Wright shattered their perfect little world of racial segregation that still exists, and that’s why there’s such uproar. Could he have talked about these topics in a more subtle or subdued way? Absolutely. Would it have been as effective? Absolutely not. This is the twenty-first century, almost a hundred and fifty years have passed since the emancipation of slaves in America, and yet there is still hatred in this country. At this point, it’s going to take someone with enough balls to stand up and start saying things that the majority of Americans don’t want to hear or face in order to affect some sort of change. It’s just absolutely mind-blowing that Wright has been ostracized and pinned as some sort of white-hating racist. Does anyone remember Senator Trent Lott? The man who continually voted against upholding the Civil Rights Act, the Voting Rights Act, and opposed Martin Luther King Day? Probably not. A story that should have been huge was continually hidden on page 12 of the local newspapers until Lott quietly resigned his post as Senate Republican Leader. He still served as Senator, however, until 2007. While some might defend Lott stating that his views simply come from his Republican and Mississippi background, I find it hard to believe that a man who is openly racist can keep his job as senator, while a man with a simple message of truth is continually ostracized.

If anything, the sermons of Reverend Jeremiah Wright have opened the eyes of at least a few people in America. While it is apparently okay to put down African Americans and other minorities, attacking Caucasians (the group that, might I add, has run this country since the day it was formed and is also the most economically sound and educated) is another story. I can only hope that this “reverse racism” proves that there is still a deep and long running hatred between the races, one that has been buried over the years and needs to be dug up and addressed before even it is lost to the back pages of the Post Gazette or Tribune Review, behind the breaking news that Britney’s back in rehab or that Paris has a new sex tape; forgotten, and once more leaving the African American community in continual inequitable limbo.

[1] If anyone owns or knows someone who owns a hate-truck that has been recently keyed, I am legally obligated to state that I did not vandalize any vehicles on the Greensburg campus. Yet.

[2] I’d like to point out that I don’t support the idea that white people are only voting for Obama to prove that they’re not racist. I was just trying to infer that for my friend to even consider voting for a black man for President was a huge step in a non-racist direction. Said friend agrees with many of Obama’s promised policies for change in America, and is not considering his vote to simply be an “I love black people” statement.

The Smoking Diaries: DAY 40 - COMING TO TERMS WITH LOSING YOUR FAVORITE MENTHOL FLAVORED FRIEND

2010-01-28T13:15:00.000-08:00

Over Christmas break I found myself back at home with my parents for a week. In other words, I had to go without smoking cigarettes for SEVEN WHOLE DAYS. Seven. A literal shit-ton. Technically, I could have excused myself at any time during those seven days to go outside and have a smoke, but I knew how my parents felt about it and I myself would have felt like too much of an asshole to even try it.

I smoked for eight years, starting when I was just 16. How much I smoked or how many cigarettes I went through always seemed to be changing from year to year. When I started smoking, I went through one pack a week. Then it was two or three. Then I started making my own cigarettes because it was just too damn expensive paying $15 a week.

The “making my own cigarettes trend” lasted about a year since I only rolled them because I had the time to roll them. I was a senior in college and not working. This was due to the fact that I worked my ass off all summer on a sausage production line - ten to twelve hour days were a norm. So, I would spend an hour at night or even in my car between classes rolling my own cigarettes.

If you haven’t ever rolled your own cigarettes then you have no possible clue how much time and patience it can take to accomplish such a small ordeal. Sure, after a month or two I was rolling one cig per minute, but it’s still a complicated and meticulous pain in the ass. Also, when you first start rolling, it literally seems like an eternity to just roll ten or twenty cigs. An eternity. I cannot express that sentiment enough. Rolling your first twenty cigs is the equivalent of watching Rush Limbaugh run a marathon: after appearing to only move a few feet towards your goal in the first ten minutes or so, your determination begins to be overwhelmed by a hopeless sense of failure. I mean, shit, why should you spend all this time and effort running when you could just get in your $450,725 car and drive to the destination?

Yet I had the time and figured I might as well save the money. Unfortunately, I was saving so much money that I was able to smoke almost triple what I normally consumed on any given day. I would find myself rolling 30-40 cigs per day and sometimes needing to roll even more. Yes, I was saving money but also smoking excessively at the same time. Whenever everyone I knew was complaining about how badly I smelled (except for my best friend who was also rolling his own), I began to consider a change of pace.

I stopped rolling my own and kept myself to a pack - to a pack and a half - a week. I was able to keep at this steady ratio for nearly two years. Also during those two years, I had to deal with my girlfriend on my ass every single time I lit up. It sucked. I’d always have to go behind her back (feeling like an asshole the entire time) or just deal with disappointing her over and over again.

My habit had now been turned into an epic conundrum not seen since the “Is Jesus Really Our Savior?” debacle of the early 0’s. Unlike Jesus, however, I was getting off that cross. Hard.

…and I’m going to cut it short here. I’ve run out of time – unfortunately - but I can say it’s been 40 days since a purchase of cigs (as I revealed in a previous blog, I did drunkenly smoke one this weekend) but I’ll be damned if the cravings aren’t still there, uh, obviously. Sucks.

From the Archives of the Shore

2010-01-28T06:57:00.000-08:00

So here's a bit I wrote about a month and a half ago. I was actually sitting in the library in between finals and had nothing else to do with my time. Really, what was I supposed to do, study? Anyways, it's all kind of pointless now since the topic was all about that flavor-of-week-bullshit Jersey Shore...which I dearly, dearly miss.

Enjoy.

So. I have a headache. A massive, Steve Urkel-esque tumor of a headache that repeatedly screams “did I do that?” right after my frontal lobe explodes.

I know, it’s been awhile. Shit’s been busy, not much else to say.

I really really really want to finish my weed-inspired tale of virgins and Easter grass, but it looks like that won’t happen for at least another week if not longer (Christmas break starts this Thursday night at 9pm and I doubt I’ll be sober until sometime on the morning of the 25^th).

So, this headache thing. I’m coming back to it because it keeps coming back to me. Honestly, the stress of the last two weeks of every semester is enough to turn people crazy...crazy enough to watch Jersey Shore, even. Okay, okay. Everyone is talking and writing and masturbating to this show already and I promise I’ll keep this short. Honestly, though, what attracts even normal, level-headed people (like myself) to this show? I don’t even watch television that often but I’ll be damned if Jersey Shore isn’t scheduled on the dvr right now. And, after initially hearing about this new form of “entertainment” from multiple sources this weekend, I had a morbid curiosity to see it for myself.

Then, I watched it.

Enjoyed it, even.

Was completely ready to name it a guilty pleasure of mine and never speak of it to the real world outside of this computer screen.

Then, the unthinkable happened. I read an article on Cracked.com by a writer that I very much respect (as much as you can when considering it’s Cracked) explaining that he too enjoyed the show with little to no knowledge of as to why.

I have no explanation to provide, either.

Though I do believe that Jersey Shore should be used to educate all the creationists in the world that evolution does indeed exist. Confused? Well, you can’t have evolution without de-evolution, which is proven to humanity through the eight “people” that star in this literal fuckfest of a television show. No disrespect to Italians, I realize that these “people” have chosen to be the way they are perceived…but goddamn, really? Guidos and Guidettes? Are you really proud of who you are and what you do? Seriously, these “people” spray tan themselves to a point where they can’t even be categorized into a color-based race system anymore. Shit, I’ve seen Africans with lighter skin then these folks. Basically, they’ve hit a point where someone out there is going to have to create a new term for these dipshits. “Spray-tan Americans” or “Fucking Pieces of Shit Who Overcompensate by Painting Themselves to the Point Where They Can No Longer Be Seen Without the Assistance of Nightvision,” or even “Disillusioned Motherfuckers that Need Our Help Through Laughter and Ridicule….”

Okay, maybe I do have an explanation for my love of the Shore. It’s not politically correct nor is it morally okay to laugh at retarded people or those with mental health issues. Honestly, I’d feel like a pretty horrible prick if I laughed at those less fortunate in the world.

If you laughed at Chase No Face, well, fuck you.

And really, I wouldn’t poke fun to begin with because, hell, that’s just not me. Yet thanks to the douches and douchettes on this show, I finally have a group of people that I can feel good about making fun of because they’ve chosen to be literal retards. It’s kind of like that episode of South Park in which the boys had the definition of “faggot” changed to represent those individuals that ride Harley Davidson Motorcycles. I, for one, am all for changing the definition of “retardation” to represent Guidos and Guiddettes.

Seriously, these “people” are Italian-Americans. Be proud of who you are! It’s been a shit-ton of a long time since Italians were discriminated against in America, so I don’t see why you’re trying so hard not to be Italian. Don’t give me that bullshit about how being a Guido is so Italian. You can wave your little Italian flags and use all your Italian slang, but I bet if I go to Italy I won’t see a million spray-tanned black guys on steroids running around fucking anything with a hole and a pulse. I’d wager money on that, even.

Still, I’d almost call it a privilege to watch Jersey Shore.

For those of you who don’t “get” the Shore and think it’s just dumb television (which, I guess, I can’t really argue against when it comes to the “stupid” part), I almost feel as if you think this way because you may see just a little bit of yourself in some of those Guidos and Guidettes. Maybe you do frequent clubs and fuck multiple individuals on such a consistent basis that you could literally repopulate the world if nuclear holocaust occurred tomorrow morning. Perhaps you just enjoy spray tanning, hair gel, and Axe body spray to the point where you are no longer genetically considered a human being. Or maybe you just think you’re above it all (which, I hate to break it to you, you’re not, Mikey).

Watching the Shore is like looking into America’s deepest, darkest regions of consumerist hell. Only in America can you be someone you’re not through the use of beauty products. Although honestly, I’m really not sure what these people are trying to become with all the spray tanning and hair gel and alcohol. A new race? I guess we already discussed that one but still, I’m baffled. Maybe the guys watched too much Dragon Ball Z as kids and maybe the women watched too much…fuck if I know. God, that one chick looks like a chubby Smurf whose been marinated in liquid shit for ten years of her life.

"The Situation" ...minus the book...though not completely ruling out the whole tail thing.

Gross.

Review: Motion City Soundtrack - My Dinosaur Life

2010-01-26T09:14:00.000-08:00

Let me be honest here: I struggled writing this review from the very moment I turned on itunes and let “My Dinosaur Life” come to life through my computer speakers. It’s not because this particular album is terrible or in any way unlistenable. In fact, the newest effort from Motion City Soundtrack managed to surprise me in almost every way. Yet for some reason or another, I can’t quite shake the feeling that the band I once knew so well is now no more.

Well, let’s hold up for a second and backtrack eight or so years to the early 2000’s. If you’re like me, you fell in love with MCS when you first heard the album, “I Am the Movie.” Brutally honest lyrics paired with music tuned to a blistering pace managed to keep MCS’ first effort in my own personal rotation for the past seven years. Their follow-up album, “Commit This to Memory,” was nearly able to match their initial pop-punk endeavor in terms of quality lyrics and quick tempo and is again something I find myself listening to from time to time. However, 2007’s “Even If It Kills Me,” made me forget about MCS until now. An album with nearly no redeeming qualities, “Even If It Kills Me” seemed to be a crossroads of sorts for the band; almost every song was a mass of confusion, consistently feeling like an unpolished pop record with a thin coating of punk aesthetic laminated overtop. The band’s identity was inarguably gone, and “Even If It Kills Me” was MCS’ failed attempt to recover it.

When listening to “My Dinosaur Life,” it is easy to assume that MCS never did find that identity lost from their first two albums. Unquestionably, “My Dinosaur Life” proves that MCS is not the same band you adored when “The Future Freaks Me Out” first made sweet, sweet love to your ears. Instead, the identity that MCS appears to have now claimed can more or less be considered all pop, minus the punk. Imagine if you can, if “From Under the Cork Tree” mated with “Stop.” Essentially, this album has some great, sugarcoated pop hooks that never really manage to break from a mid-tempo pace (in fact, my biggest complaint is how restrained lead singer Justin Pierre feels; his voice never hits the extreme ranges that are found on earlier albums). Is this a bad thing? That’s where I find myself struggling. Sure, I would have much preferred another “I Am the Movie,” but I never expected such considering “My Dinosaur Life” is a major label debut. In fact, this album is a pretty solid pop record all around. Sure, a few tracks manage to elicit memories of previous efforts; Disappear could be a b-side from “I Am the Movie” while Delirium could have been ripped straight from “Commit this to Memory.” Overall, however, this is where most - if not all - similarities end.

So here I am again, struggling with my general feelings about “My Dinosaur Life” and how to properly score it. Yes, Motion City Soundtrack has created a solid pop record that has managed to keep my undivided attention for the past week. However, I have to ask myself whether or not I see this release passing the test of time as the previous two albums have, or whether “My Dinosaur Life” will find itself collecting dust with other flavor-of-the-year pop records.

My prediction right now? Probably the shelf.

3.5/5

Pointless Update: Entry 101189

2010-01-25T10:41:00.000-08:00

I haven't been writing as much, I know. Don't ask why. I wouldn't blame it on a lack of time or subjects; in fact, I've actually been participating in a lot of cool stuff lately. I went to a party at Penn State this past weekend, for instance. I even managed to only drunkenly smoke one cigarette, which, by the way, was not as good as I remember it. The unfortunate aspect is that I know I would still start smoking again if I bought a pack randomly someday. It's truly a weird situation knowing that smoking really isn't all that great nor is it what I remember (taste/smell wise) but that I'd still pick it right back up if I really wanted. I guess that's a weakness of sorts. I highly doubt I'd ever start smoking again while in a relationship with my girlfriend, but should things ever go south and that would end, I can 100% guarantee that I would begin smoking again. Shit, that almost rhymes. Onward and upwards, I guess.
I'm starting to think I might just have writer's block...but a really weird form of it. I mean, I have tons of ideas and stories literally floating around in my head at this very moment. Unfortunately, I don't really feel like writing about any of them. It almost feels as if I'm waiting for something, though I really have no idea what. Well, I take that back. I know I'm waiting for that one great idea that will eventually culminate into a story that I feel could be the one that gets me out in the public eye. I know that is coming. What it is or what it involves, however, is still pretty vague.
I did write a review for punknews.org today, though. I'll see if it gets posted this week at all and add the link to this page. If it doesn't, I'll just post the entire review for anyone interested.

Goodbye, December

2010-01-03T16:50:00.000-08:00

When you're still in the never-ending swing of continuing education, December is by far the fastest month of they year. Whether it's cramming for finals or finishing the six, 15+ page papers you put off till the last minute, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas blows over quicker than Paris Hilton's acting career.
To be honest, I had absolutely no time to update this thing for the three people in the world that actually read it. I apologize. For the first two weeks of December, it was finals time for me, and then I spent a week back home with the parents, enjoying the holiday season and separating myself from technology as much as possible. I then spent New Year's here, at the apartment, with my beautiful girlfriend. We got shitfaced and watched Jennifer's Body. Happy New Year indeed.
I've also been coping with quitting smoking. In fact, I've been smoke free for fifteen days now and holy fuck, does it suck. I'd like to get into more detail about the situation, the side effects, the pain, and all the usual suffering, but my beautiful girlfriend who has also been pushing me to quit just walked in the door from work.
I'll have some free time tomorrow morning, perhaps.
Talk to you later, kiddos.

Attack of the Easter Grass, Part Deuce

2009-11-24T10:34:00.000-08:00

DISCLAIMER: This is Part 2 of a multi-part story. Part 1 is directly below this blog. Please read it first.

***

“Why, I dare ask, did you put Easter grass in the water bong bowl?” At this point, I could somewhat speak in a normal tone, as most of the poisonous gases had apparently left my lungs.

Sammy sat forward on the couch, a sly smile creeping up on his face. “Okay, okay,” he said, trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re gonna love this.”

I love the fact that you can actually coherently speak at this moment, that’s for goddamn sure.

“Keep going,” I snapped. I was still irritated that it had taken this long to get an explanation, and even more pissed that the water bong in my hand contained no actual marijuana.

“Well, you know how me and Africa and Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck always complain about Douchenozzle just coming over and smoking all our weed, right?”

I was indeed familiar with this situation. Apparently, Douchenozzle had come to the conclusion that he no longer wanted to pay for his marijuana, and would instead simply stop by and let Sammy and the gang smoke him up. Since the gang was much too nice to say anything about it to his face, they instead would complain behind his back at all times. I could only guess at this moment that the gang decided to seek revenge by placing Easter grass in the water bong.

“Let me guess: you guys put Easter grass in the water bong as some sort of ill-conceived revenge plot?” I don’t know why I asked; truth be told this was the only rational explanation to the scene I was now witnessing.

Sammy looked to be in a state of shock. “Dude! How did you know?”

I shook my head. “Just a good guess, I, uh, guess. Regardless, did you guys smoke the Easter grass too?”

“Yeah man, shit gets you high as fuck! Who knew, right?”

“How the hell are you all not dead right now?”

“Well,” Sammy paused, eyeing-up the water bong in my hands, “we kept passing it back to Douchenozzle every chance we got, so he probably smoked way more than me, Africa, or Alf” (Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck…the “e” is silent, don’t ask). “Then he sort of just passed out on the floor. About two hours after that we realized he might be dead. That’s when Africa and Alf took off and I called you.”

This was quickly becoming more than I could actually handle.

“Hey,” I asked, “you have any actual weed for me to smoke?” I figured that since the gang more than likely came up with their Easter grass fuck-up while smoking that the only way a solution could be properly invented would be with my mind under the influence as well.

“Um…no. But seriously dude, just take a few hits of that grass, it’ll fuck you up.”

For a split second I actually considered taking another hit from the murderous holiday decoration bong, but before I could come to a decision, Abe Lincoln Emo Fuck crashed through the back door.

“Holy fuck!” Alf screamed upon seeing Douchenozzle and Mr. Coppertone dead on the floor. “There’s a fucking corpse in here!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I replied looking towards Sammy. “Didn’t you say he was here with you when this all happened?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said, “but he was high off the grass and drinking Vlad so he might be more fucked than Douchenozzle.”

I had to agree; Alf had a tendency of drinking and smoking to excessive amounts and not remembering entire days at a time. In other words, he was about as useless to me right now as a vagina in a gay bar.

“Eww, it’s still warm.” Alf was currently using his right hand to repeatedly poke at the back of Douchenozzle’s arm. “So, uh, guys,” he muttered, still poking, “do you think if I fucked this thing that it would make me, uh, well, you know?”

“What?” I asked. Leave it to Alf to make the situation even more fucked up. Exactly what I didn’t need right now.

“I’m not following you,” Sammy replied.

“Come on guys,” Alf whined, “ you know what I mean.”

“No, I’m pretty goddamn sure we don’t,” I said. I honestly had no idea where he was going with this, even though I probably should have.

Alf sighed for at least a good twenty seconds, then (finally) stated, “Okay, so if I fuck this body here, it would make me an un-virgin, right? It’s gotta count for something.”

Alf looked at us both with a smile that I can only describe as shit-fucking-creepy. In fact, that smile coupled with the idea of him fucking a dead man’s corpse would be enough to haunt my nightmares for the next ten years. Therapy included.

Silence took us all over for what felt like a millennia. Alf continued to stand there, his shit-fucking-creepy smile plastered all over his shit-fucking-creepy face.

“No,” Sammy exclaimed, finally breaking the silence. “I’m pretty sure it would just make you gay.”

“That so deserves a high-five, dude,” I said, putting my hand up in recognition.

Sammy returned the motion, the slap echoing off of Alf’s ears like a gunshot. While Sammy’s last comment was indeed funny enough for a high-five celebration, I was more excited by the fact that such a well thought-out and humorous effort from him meant that he might finally be coming down from his Easter grass high. It also meant that I now had a capable sidekick, and our chances of getting away cleanly with this entire fiasco were suddenly much, much better.

Me, Sammy, Africa, ALF, and the Easter Grass: Part Uno

2009-11-23T11:43:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: All names used in this story are fake…mostly due to a murder case that is still under investigation. Oh, except for Mr. Coppertone, the kitten. His name really is Mr. Coppertone...not that it matters because he dies like, five paragraphs into the story.

“You know,” Sammy said, lifting our victim’s round, fluffy kitten high in the air, “I read that the best way to murder someone is by using their cat as a contraceptive.”

I shook my head, desperate to alleviate the image of my friend wearing nothing but a hissing feline wrapped around his genitals. It wasn’t the first time my imagination had conjured up something similar in the dark, hellish regions of my mind. I just prayed that it might be the last.

“Will you put Mr. Coppertone down and come help me with Douchenozzle?” Granted, ‘Douchenozzle” was not the Christian name of the dead body that now lay before us, but, due to a certain murder case still being open, I’m not too sure how much detail would be appropriate before Sammy and I would have a guaranteed date in the “Don’t Drop the Soap Olympics” (that means “prison,” for all you non-intellectual types). I do assure you, however, that Mr. Coppertone was the actual name of Mr. Coppertone.

“Tell me again - slowly this time - just what the hell happened here.” Although Sammy had explained the story to me at least five times, I was still having a hard time fully understanding his stoned speech. “And put the cat down, please,” I added.

With a defeated and somewhat sad-looking shrug, Sammy dropped Mr. Coppertone on the coffee table in front of him. With a loud crash, Mr. Coppertone fell through the glass top of the table and rolled to a bloody rest on the carpet, a large piece of glass protruding from his cute, kitten head.

“Good job, fucknuts, that’s two things you’ve managed to kill tonight.”

Oh yes, I do assure you that Mr. Coppertone is full-blown dead.

Sammy opened his mouth to say something, but after thirty seconds of silence that I assumed to be his pot-addled mind trying to form words other than “dead” and “pussy,” I started to lose patience.

“Okay,” I started once again, trying desperately not to sound as pissed as I was at him, “explain again what happened. Without killing small, defenseless animals this time.”

Sammy, apparently broken from his weed-stupor, shouted “but you told me to put Mr. Coppertone down!”

“And I don’t really fucking care!” I screamed back. “How do you like them, apples?”

“Apples?” Sammy asked. “I’m hungry.”

I shook my head, desperate to leave the situation as quickly as I possibly could. I mean, shit, who wouldn’t?

When Sammy called me over to his house, I had no idea I’d be walking into a room with a dead body and eventually a dead Mr. Coppertone bleeding all over the tan carpet. Thanks to the misguided efforts of my stoned friend, I was now an accessory to murder unless I called the proper authorities. But where I come from, friends don’t let stoned friends get butt-pumped in prison. And Sammy was undoubtedly my friend.

And they're just the butt-fucking welcoming committee.

“Ok,” I said, kicking Douchenozzle’s head so that his face rolled around to where I could look him in his bloated eyes. “He’s blue. What’d you guys do, suffocate him to death?” I glanced over to Sammy, who gave me an “I don’t know” double shoulder shrug. He was also taking a hit from his beloved golden water bong.

“Give me that shit!” I yelled, grabbing the bong from his fingers. “This is what got you in trouble in the first place, stupid!”

With a dejected and saddened look on his face as if I had just murdered his brother, Sammy quietly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I sighed. It was hard staying mad at the kid. Sammy was so high that me losing my temper with him would be the equivalent of yelling at mentally retarded children for not understanding physics. I would have to take this much, much slower.

“Sammy,” I enunciated slowly and carefully like one would to a stupid dog they’re trying to train, “please try to think about what happened to Douchenozzle.” This was it, the last time I was going to ask this question. If he didn’t answer it correctly, I would simply drive off and pray that he didn’t remember me being here in the first place.

Finally, with a look of extreme concentration or constipation, Sammy opened his mouth and responded.

“He smoked too much.”

I waited for more of an explanation. After ten seconds of silence, I decided to push the agenda.

“And?” I asked.

That look of constipation again on Sammy’s face. “No, that’s it. He just smoked too much.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.” I should have expected something like this. Leave it to these assholes to accomplish something that science had proven couldn’t be done.

“So you’re telling me, Sammy, that Douchenozzle somehow OD’d on marijuana?”

Sammy nodded his head excitedly. “Weird, huh?”

I found a recliner in the corner of the room and threw myself into it. I had the feeling that it was going to be a long night. Sammy, still high as fuck, laid himself down on a couch and began singing Tegan and Sara songs to no one in particular. This, I thought, was as good a time as any to have a smoke.

I took the golden water bong that I still held in my hand and put it to my mouth. Lighting it, I took a huge hit, hoping the weed would magically produce a solution to this horrible mess I now faced. Instead, I was greeted with the warm breath of death itself as it crawled down my throat and into my lungs.

Immediately jerking forward, I began to violently cough. It felt like my throat was a random German city that was being firebombed by the British Airforce.

“Holy,” cough, “fuck!” I managed to squeak across my vocal chords. “What,” cough, “in the fuck,” cough, “is this shit?” More coughing.

“Oh!” Sammy exclaimed, suddenly broken from his shitty karaoke act on the couch. “That’s Easter grass.”

“Easter grass?”

“Yeah, Easter grass.”

I somehow saw this coming. Don’t even ask me how, it’s just sort of a sixth sense I’ve gotten from hanging with Sammy for so long. Whether it was the time he broke his foot falling into a 2 inch ditch while drunk boxing at a party, or the infamous day he somehow managed to survive a full-blown 60mph ejaculation from the driver’s side window of his former Mercury Cougar, what should surprise me with Sammy just simply didn’t anymore. In fact, Easter grass in the water bong didn’t even rank a 3 on the “Weird-Shit-Sammy’s-Done-10-Point-Scale.” Still, I had to find out why there was Easter grass in the water bong if I were to even begin to hope to solve the problem of a dead Douchenozzle and save Sammy from a butt-fucking bonanza in prison.

But could I actually save him?

FIND OUT NEXT TIME I HAVE THE TIME TO FINISH THIS STUPID SHIT...IN OTHER WORDS, TO BE CONTINUED!

PROOF THAT EVERYTHING YOU LOVE WILL EVENTUALLY BE RUINED BY PEOPLE WITH VAGINAS

2009-11-17T10:45:00.000-08:00

It is a well known fact that anything of interest in this world will eventually be tarnished by the raving hordes of estrogen-filled meat-carcasses that are known as teenage girls. Throughout history, every dark period that’s ravaged mankind has somehow been smeared by the bloody taints of screaming harlots desperate for the attention that daddy never gave them. Hitler? All because Eva Braun wrote a letter at the age of 19 on how much she hated Jewish people. Nudity? Yeah, not anymore, Eve. Now I always have the constant nagging of the Catholic Church in the back of my mind reminding me that I may go blind every time I participate in a late-night Cinemax jerk-fest. African American slavery? You can thank lazy white girls who didn’t feel like doing their own chores. The war in Iraq? Total Bush (which is, you know, another word for the vaginal area).

You see, the point I’m trying to make here is that teenage girls have been responsible for a lot of terrible shit. Lately, however, their sick and twisted abilities to cause pain and destruction have been shifted towards well-established forms of awesomeness. What exactly does this mean? Think of your favorite thing in the world to do (excluding masturbation). Perhaps it’s skateboarding with your pals or playing in a band; maybe you enjoy bird watching or growing a garden. Regardless, you must come to the realization that someday everything you know and love will eventually be shit on by the overall collective of millions of teenage girls worldwide. In fact, that massive dump has already begun.

How Things with Vaginas have Ruined the Pittsburgh Penguins
The Pittsburgh Penguins are the 2009 Stanley Cup Champions. Basically, this translates to “if you don’t have $200+ to spend on an individual ticket, then you’re shit out of luck when it comes to getting a decent seat in the Mellon Arena.” Yet if you do somehow happen to find the Holy Grail of the hockey world (seats for under $150 that don’t have an obstructed view of the ice), you’re still going to have to contend with the AIDS infected population of the teenage whore. Yes, that’s right, teenage girls are now spreading like a viral plague throughout the NHL, mainly due to the fact that the players are like, such hawties. Seriously, these bags of disease may not be able to logically deduce where center ice is, but hey, they only came to make horrible puns about wanting to “get pucked” by some dudes “wooden shaft.” Seriously ladies, you could at least be more creative. Although I will admit that the “creative” side of a 15-year-old girl’s brain usually consists of taking stock photos of players and then poorly photoshopping in gangsta jewelry and liquor they’ve never even touched in real life. A whole bucketful of glitter-vomit later and you have an A+ 9th grade art project. Let’s face it: no one wants to see that even in their worst nightmares.

Wait. They’ve actually made shit like that already? You’re kidding me.

And this is why Sidney Crosby killed himself.

Fuck, do I hate you bitches.

Why “Emo” is a Dirty Word (just like “tampon”)
There was a time in the 1990’s when a certain type of music developed in the punk underground. It was called “emo,” and bands like Sunny Day Real Estate and Mineral nearly perfected the art of writing emotional lyrics over brooding chords that was truly an enjoyable experience. Fast forward over a decade and now the word “emo” is associated with such douchenozzle’s as these:

Our lives are like an endless track of pain that can only be expressed through terrible fashion choices.

I can’t tell if these people are actual teenage girls, but hell, I sure as fuck can blame those terror-bitches for this whole fiasco.

Here, let’s do a lyrical comparison:

Sunny Day Real Estate – Seven
sew it on. face the fool.
december's tragic drive
when time is poetry and
stolen the world outside
the waiting could crush my heart
the tide breaks a wave of fear
and brave songs disappear to the secret
voice of dawn this last time
raise my eyes. you'll taste it in time
the right words in time.
the mirrors lie those aren't my eyes
destroy them raise my hand
reflected in savage
shards a new face a
soul reborn.

And now for today’s popular trash:

All Time Low – Damned If I do Ya (Damned If I Don’t)
I fought it for a long time now
While drowning in a river of denial
I washed up, fixed up, picked up
All my broken things

'Cause you left me
Police tape, chalk line
Tequila shots in the dark scene of the crime
Suburban living with a feeling
That I'm giving up everything for you

Oh, oh, oh
How was I supposed to know
That you were o-o-over me?
I think that I should go (Go!)
And something's telling me to leave but I won't
'Cause I'm damned if I do ya, damned if I don't

I particularly enjoy the lines “police tape, chalk line/tequila shots in the dark scene of the crime/suburban living with a feeling….” Yes, I can truly feel the pain this rich, white suburban boy is going through at this very moment due to the lyrical genius of his word play and rhyme. The question he is struggling with is quite the epic fiasco as well: do I fuck this bitch in the ass or do I stop the spread of herpes here and now? I’m torn as well; I know this is a terrible song and it was only written because brainless things with vaginas just love to sing and dance, but really, can I honestly loathe something that is secretly pushing the idea of one-night-stands that will more than likely rip the hearts out of teenage girls?

Nah, I still hate this shit.

But it does go to show you that these chicks are so stupid that they’ll even listen to songs about their own degradation! Amazing! And it only gets worse!

Not simply content with ruining an entire music genre, these little slutbags have managed to combine everything that they love into one-gigantic-fuck-fest of a musical mishap. Taking their unfortunate taste in bad crunk music, drinking, partying, and nu-wave emo, teenage girls pushed for the creation of their idea of the perfect band. And in 2008, that menstrual horror was vaginally discharged onto the unsuspecting world at large.

Seriously, girls, I have to hand it to you; this is great music to be raped to.

“Hey, remember Nosferatu? Yeah, neither do I.”
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, vampires and werewolves and other grotesque legends were considered, well, grotesque. No one wanted to bang a vampire, and fucking the neighborhood werewolf could get you a bestiality charge at best and a quick death at worst. Now, with such literary trash as Twilight littering bookstores everywhere, it’s suddenly become cool to have sexual relations with a guy that’s more interested in drinking your blood than sticking anything inside of you. This, to be honest, is the most baffling of all the teenage girl takeover events. The hockey guys I can get; they’re big dudes in good shape. Hell, I’d probably fuck Sidney Crosby myself. As for the music, well, girls just have horrible taste in everything so them creating a literal shitstain on the music industry isn’t really all that surprising. But vampires? Really? I just don’t see the appeal.

He’s got five inches with your name on it.

I’ve honestly contemplated this baffling scenario for months now and I’ve only been able to come up with two logical conclusions (and when I say “logical,” I really mean “batshit insane”). First, a lot of chicks think serial killers are attractive pieces of man meat. Perhaps the fear of vampires (they do kill you, ya know) is like the adrenaline thrill of dating a convicted murderer. I mean, that kind of makes sense: having no logic whatsoever, girls everywhere are sexually attracted to dangerous men.

However, my only problem with this theory is that it’s fucking boring. And let’s face it: the truth is never boring (I learned that from Fox News!). Here’s the real truth behind the love of Twilight: teenage girls are insecure beings. Sure, they have a ton of power in the entertainment industry (as seen by today’s music trends and the entire programming of the CW, MTV, and VH1), but they’re so fucking clueless and worried about what Jockstrap Jimmy is going to think about their new thong in 3rd period to pay attention to anything outside of their own peripheral vision. So, what’s the cause of all this insecurity?

Drum roll, please.

Periods. Menstrual cycles. The unstoppable, bloody flow of Mother Nature. And that’s the key. Blood. Teenage girls just want a guy that’s unfazed by their natural blood loss and, shit, no ones better at dealing with bloody messes like vampires. Plus, they’ll get the added bonus of having a dude who’ll eat ‘em out all month long. Win-win, ladies. Win-win.

Perhaps you’re not as vacant in the skull as I originally thought…hahaha, just kidding. Ya’ll still suck until about the age of 21. Just sayin'.

"Korrok, man, what a dick!"

2009-11-16T10:37:00.000-08:00

Long time no see, eh?

It's been a hell of a last eight days or so for me since I came down with the dreaded H1N1 on or around November 7th. I'll skip most of the details here and just say that it does indeed suck and to rest as much as possible. Really, it's just like the regular flu. Unfortunately for me, it was worse the worst flu I’ve ever had in my life. Yet really, that's all I have to say about it. I'm over it, and (I hope) it's over me. Oh, except I had to miss out on going to the Penn State/Indiana game over the weekend. Of course the Lions won, and it would have been the only game I went to this year in which they accomplished this particular feat (thank you, Iowa and Ohio State). Shit happens, I guess.

Now, on to the bad news.

It's crunch time for me on the school front; November and December are always the worst months (along with March and April) when it comes to the amount and difficulty of school work. This means I highly doubt I'll be posting more than once a week on this blog (if not less). What does this mean for the -1 amount of visitors that actually read my beautiful literature (which, by the way, has been compared to Updike and Wong by certain, highly respected critics (me))? Um, I don't know, I guess you'll be spared the potential tragedy of lowering your IQ any further than it is already. And, hey, let's be honest here, for some of you guys I'm sure that means you may be one step further in completing the nearly impossible task of not shitting your pants every six hours, or, at the very least, not throwing said-shit when it does hit the bottom of the inside of your pant leg.

Huh. Maybe I take all that back. This sounds like a win-win for everyone, I guess.

Yet at the off-chance that one of you simpletons that does indeed read this is in fact already trained to shit in some sort of container other than your very own underwear, than I'm sorry to say that you're gonna miss me…at least till Christmas, when I plan on getting my very own netbook that I will carry around and never let out of my sight.

So yeah, here's my goodbye. For now at least. Who knows? Maybe I'll free up some time in just an hour or two and be right back on here. Or maybe I will indeed form a rip in the space-time continuum through my constant flatulence and be able to write at my own, gassy desire.

More than likely, though, I won't see any of you fucks till Christmas. I do have a gift for you, however. To make up for my lack of future posting, go read this novel. But don't say I didn't warn you. Confused? You'll know when it happens. They'll make their presence known, trust me. That's all I can say.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Naked Truths about Bromance

2009-11-03T18:40:00.000-08:00

"You ever watch that video of turtles humping?" My best-friend, Michael McFistpump, asked. I could tell by his current-crazy-wide-Manson-eyes that he totally jerked-off to videos of turtles humping, and was hoping that I too would admit to such a horrible act.

"No, you sick fuck," I instead replied in disgust. "But I bet you jerk-off to videos of turtles humping."

Frankly, I didn't mean to sound like such a jerk, but it was hard answering his stupid questions while attempting to masturbate to videos of turtles humping...inanimate objects (which is, like, totally different material).

"Mom, no! Don't come in here!"

Apparently Michael believed my partial lie, for he did not open his mouth again, and I was once again able to concentrate on the video of a turtle concentrating on fucking the opening of a rather large boot. I gave credit to the little turtle-guy; that boot-hole was the equivalent of the ol' "throwing a hotdog down a hallway" joke, or, to keep with more recent times, the equivalent of how fucking the octo-mom is a clear metaphor to the inner workings of your very own soul: a rotting blackhole that only allows you to feel one, perpetually repeating emotion...that of extreme and indescribable pain (what, too much?). Either way, I'm not sure how the little turtle creature found any pleasure in the act at all.

Yet as I thought about the situation more, I came to the conclusion that this turtle was more than likely just an unwilling actor in one of those softcore porn Cinemax shows; you know, the ones with no actual penetration and just lots of bad acting, dry humping, and subsequent tears (or what is better known as the sum of all my junior high memories). Furious at the sudden realization that this turtle-fuck probably made more than I did after taxes, I slammed my laptop shut and quickly shoved my boner back into it's underpants dwelling. Surprised by my sudden actions, Michael did the same with his laptop (and boner).

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you were so passionate about the subject," Michael said, fumbling with the cords to his sweatpants.

"What subject?" I snapped back.

"Turtle-fucking, duh."

"Turtle fucking da-what?" I quizzically questioned, wondering why Michael was suddenly speaking what appeared to be a lazy form of Ebonics.

Michael shook his head as if to say, "never mind," then caught himself halfway through the motion, realizing that I was too stupid to understand it, and instead exclaimed, "Fuck off and die, you dumb cock."

"Never mind? Okay," I replied.

I decided to just let him drop the subject, especially since I only understood about 30% of the words that exited his mouth. In fact, most of the time I found myself struggling to stay with any of our conversations that exceeded the standard 12-word limit, or the phrase, "I'd totally bone that chick from Paramore." That phrase alone cost me 4 months in jail and an eternal restraining order against the entire Paramore band...but that particular incident is better left for another time.

Just posting this picture alone means I've broken over 70 restrictions and face possible jail time of over 2 years. The things I do for you kids.

Suddenly realizing that Michael was trying to converse with me, I paused my inner dialogue and set my gaze in his general direction.

"Smarty-ass-education-I-have-in-policeology-garbaly-garbabaly-goo-goo-ya-know?" ...He possibly said.

"Yeah, I'd totally bone that chick from Paramore, too," I answered, resisting the urge to to tear open my laptop and frantically search for photoshopped images of Hayley-whats-her-face naked. Not that the software restrictions that the police installed would let me, anyways.

"Fucking christ," Michael said, dropping his head into his palms. "Why are we even friends?"

Unconsciously thanking Michael for keeping his sentences below the 12-word limit, I asked, "Because I'm the only other person on this planet that would sit here and jerk-off to turtle-fucking with you?"

"I knew it!" Michael yelled, jumping up from the floor and angerly pointing his finger in my face.

"Don't overreact too much, sparky. That anger you feel is just the sudden comprehension that the half-gallon of Jack Daniels we just downed is going to burn a hell of a lot worse coming out then it did going down, if you catch my drift."

"Like giving anal-birth to a hive of angry wasps," Michael agreed, shivering slightly at the thought. "But I guess you're right, sorry."

"Aren't I always?" I smugly replied.

"No, you almost never are," Michael almost instantly interrupted. "Especially how you claim a person can get AIDS from touching puppies...or what about that story where you supposedly went fishing in Lake Erie and caught a mermaid that looked like Milla Jovovich, who then of course took you to the underwater mermaid world that contained a million Milla Jovovich mermaids just so you could fuck every last one of them...

Like this, but with more rape.

Or that time you got caught with that chimpanzee at the rest stop and told everyone that the chimp wasn't giving you a blow- "

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" I quickly yelled. "Just because you didn't get to put your dick inside a mermaid-Milla Jovovich doesn't mean that they don't exist."

"Yeah, okay." Mike rolled his eyes.

"It's kind of like Santa Claus," I explained. "I mean, just because you've never seen him in person doesn't make the fact that he stands outside your window every night playing with his own testacles any less true."

Mike grimaced, more than likely at the sudden remembrance of Santa's dirty man-sack.

"You know," he whispered, choking back the tears, "my dad told me he'd kill that jolly bastard if he ever caught him in the act."

And that's how we know Santa's a lefty.

I recoiled in horror, nearly vomiting at the thought. It took all of my restraint not to reach out and punch the ungrateful bastard right in his ungrateful nose right on his ungrateful face.

"You ungrateful bastard!" I screamed. "How ungrateful can your ungrateful face get any more ungrateful!?" I ended that sentence with a question mark and an exclamation point namely because, well, to be honest with you, that sentence really didn't make much of any sense and I was unsure of how to tackle it without coming off as a total dickhole in front of another total dickhole. It's a pride thing, I guess.

Ed's note: Wow. That explanation didn't make much sense either. Your loss.

Before Michael could decipher just what the hell I was trying to scream at his ungrateful face, I quickly changed the subject, less I seem like the bigger dickhole and completely fail at life.

"You know, my girlfriend thinks we're gay cause we hang out together every once in awhile."

"What?" Michael asked, a look of confusion mired to his ungrateful, dickhole face.

"Well, she feels that two guys don't need to hang out alone and-"

"No," he interrupted, "what's 'gay' mean?"

I was stunned. This was a question I wasn't expecting, and honestly was in no way prepared to immediately answer. Truly, how is any heterosexual person supposed to faithfully express the intricate feelings, emotions, and psychology of the gay man and woman? How, praytell, was I to fully illustrate to my hetero life-partner the social injustices that the homosexual community faced day in and day out? Frankly, their inability to marry was just one of the hardships that I could not even begin to fathom, nor even begin to explain to Michael. The subject just seemed too large, too foreboding, and too mired in the structural problems of today's American society for me to tackle.

Yet after a few moments of quiet contemplation, a solution so simple came to mind that I could hardly believe I hadn't thought of it earlier. I lunged for my laptop, quickly initiating a google image search.

"Well?" He asked.

"Here. Take a look at this. It just about explains everything." I turned my laptop so that Michael could fully and clearly see the picture on the screen.

"It's like this," I explained, "...but without any chicks."

HOW TO WASH YOUR CAT IN 5 EASY STEPS!

2009-10-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

For those of you looking for a simple, easy-to-read-how-to on washing your cat -- it's coming, swear to Jesus. And, it IS simple! And it IS easy-to-read!

I just feel as if I have to explain myself first.

On Monday, October 26th, I applied for a writing internship. Yes, I already have a 24 hr internship PLUS grad school but I figured hey, why the fuck not? I can do it, no problem. Besides, I waste all the free time I have either playing videogames or watching Ghost Lab, Ghost Hunters, or Ghost "Place-Noun/Adjective-Here" on DirectTV. Also, let's be honest, I probably won't even get the position. Why? Well, I gave them (possible internship-employer people) the link to this blog. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. Honestly, though, this blog IS a good example of my writing style (DISCLAIMER: this is only partially true, as only the Paranormal-ly Retarded and maybe two other postings have been humorous, literate type-ups).

I know my shit is crude 99.9% of the time, but, if you remove all the "fucks/shits/cunts/Scott Baio's," you may actually find a readable piece of artwork...albeit sticky from all the jizz stains.

Still, I'm not getting my hopes up...even though (according to the possible-internship-employer's craigslist ad) this place supposedly has a vert ramp in the office space. No shit. How awesome is that? I for one cannot wait to smash my face off the bottom of that vert ramp multiple, multiple times.

Okay, back to the whole "washing your cat" thing.

The reason I'll be discussing wiggling balls of wet feline fur in this blog is because I'd be doing topical issues such as "washing your cat" for this internship...or at least that's what I gathered from their job listing. Here: I'll let them explain it.

Write an online article based on high‐traffic keywords.

“How to get rid of wasps”

According to Wordtracker, a tool that measures search engine traffic, the phrase “How to get rid of wasps” gets typed in 415 times a day on Google, Yahoo, MSN, AOL, AskJeeves, etc. Apparently, getting rid of wasps is a serious problem across the United States, and currently, the #1 site that attracts that traffic (on Google) is …http://www.getridofthings.com/get‐rid‐of‐wasps.htm…an article by Jonathan Hatch. It’s filled with pictures, lots of content, and a lot of information about both identifying wasps and killing them. It also teaches you how to naturally kill wasps, treat wasp stings, and even has a funny element to it in the style of writing. What does this have to do with your job? Your job is to beat Jonathan at his own game by writing an article that’s even better than his. There are a lot of things wrong with Jonathan’s article, from it being too verbose, to not having video, to having pictures that are not that clear, to being littered with advertisements. The list goes on and on. The bottom line is that there’s always a way to make things better‐‐that’s what drives the competitive spirit in this country. Whether you are making a better cup of coffee, a better hamburger, or a better automobile, the better product or service will always win.

...And then there's a PR aspect to it as well but you get the idea.

So, without further ado (what the fuck does that even mean?), here's HOW TO WASH YOUR CAT IN 5 EASY STEPS!***

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Hello there! My name is Kyp Bing, and I'm going to take you on the magical journey known as "Washing Your Cat." (smiles) I hope you're ready, because this experience will leave you scarred for a lifetime, both mentally AND physically! (laughs)

Let's begin!

1) OBTAIN A MEDIEVAL SUIT OF ARMOR.

No shit, you're gonna need it. Your feline companion is a natural killing machine. In fact, if you were a small animal (such as a bird or mouse), Mr. Bigglesworth would have eaten you a long time ago. Now, obviously you're not a bird or a mouse because you found this webpage (laughs), but don't let that small fact make you think you're suddenly superior to that cute little kitten of yours. I assure you, he's still tougher, meaner, and nastier than that lesbian on American Idol, Simon Cowell.

However, if you either can't find or don't have enough money to purchase a suit of armor, those long yellow rubber gloves that brainwashed-housewives of the 1950's wore will do just fine.

2) PREPARE FOR WAR

See, this is where that suit of armor would have come in handy. As General Patton once stated, "war is nothing more than a bunch of 6th grade dick-measuring and sexual insecurity," or something like that. The truth is, however, your cat probably has a bigger dick than you and he's going to prove it. Whether it's a desperate claw to your eyesocket or a sudden nip at your testacles, your cat is going to do his damndest to castrate you like you neutered him. He may not have balls anymore, but he's got enough pent up anger from that situation to kill. In other words, he's Mel Gibson and you're the Bar mitzvah that Mel Gibson was just forcefully dropped into. (laughs) Keep strong!

3) DROWN! DROWN! DROWN!

Even if this is the first time your cat has ever been in the bathroom, the moment he sees that tub his natural survival instincts will kick in and you're gonna be in for a shitton of clawing, scratching, and screaming (kind of like the first time you had sex, eh? Hey, I didn't say it was consensual!). So, before you even bring kitty into the room, have the water running at a comfortable, nearly lukewarm temperature. Remember: you don't want to burn little Tuffles in the bath. Also, plug the drain so that a shallow pool layers the bottom of the tub; this will make Shithead feel more comfortable in the water.

Ready?

Your cat is going to act as if the Second Coming of Christ is about to occur right up until he feels the natural, soothing movements of the water. So, take a deep breath yourself, AND THEN PUT THAT FUCKER'S HEAD RIGHT UNDER THE SPICKET. Seriously. He'll be in so much shock that he won't know what to do. In fact, your cat will probably go limp in your hands after a few minutes of this technique. Don't worry, it's just a natural survival instinct. However, it's still probably safe at this time to remove your cat's face from under the torrential downpour of hell spewing from your faucet.

4) MODERATION

It'll take a few moments for kitten to recover; this is your chance to shampoo him/soap him/have your way with him. If he begins to bitch and moan again, repeat the dunking of the head until kitten's lungs fill with water (again). Just make sure they don't fill too much! (laughs)

5) PREPARE FOR WAR (Part 2)

So you're done drowning --er--I mean, "washing" your cat. After he's dry, you're going to have a beautiful, fluffy, smell-good ball of fuck on your hands. Unfortunately, he's also going to be planning your death. In fact, kitten has probably been planning it from the moment he regained consciousness after the first time you attempted to drown him.

While it's sometimes heartbreaking, you'll have no other choice but to stuff kitten into a plastic bag (double bag it just in case; you can never be too careful!) and throw him out the window as you speedily drive by your local animal shelter.

No harsh feelings, little man! (laughs)

And that concludes, "How to Wash Your Cat in Five Easy Steps!" I hope you enjoyed this lesson, and I hope to see all of you next week for, "How to Successfully Eat Your Partner's Asshole Without Getting AIDS All Up in Your Mouth." Goodbye!

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***DON'T DO ANY OF THAT SHIT I JUST SAID, YOU SICK FUCKS. I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF IT AND AM NOT LIABLE IF YOU TRY IT. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, DO NOT ATTEMPT ANY OF THESE STEPS.

So, people-I'm-trying-to-get-an-internship-with, what do you think? I for one feel that I deserve it simply because I wrote an entire piece on washing felines without making one dirty pussy joke. Seriously. That's nobel peace prize winning shit. I'd like to see Obama give a speech about washing cats and not throw in a pussy joke or two.

He couldn't. Fucking truth.

well what's attached to a leash that it made itself? the punchline is the way that you've been fucking yourself

2009-10-23T10:08:00.000-07:00

It's the Larry Arms 10th Anniversary extravaganza this weekend in Chicago. I, once again too poor, cannot attend.

DEPRESSION.

Honestly, I can't even read the bad sandwich chronicles anymore because I SHOULD FUCKING BE THERE. Blah.

Spending $30 dollars on some stupid Halloween hayride and haunted house tonight. BIG SPENDER RIGHT HERE.

ahldfjadsfjdsfkjsdf fuck.

Tomorrow night, I'll have 24 bottles in hand and the greatest story ever told/cocktails and dreams/apathy and exhaustion/oh! calcutta running on repeat. Maybe some sundowner and falcon thrown in for good mix. Hell, slapstick might even make a guest appearance. Fuck yeah, it'll be like having the 10th anniversary show in my house!

Hahahahahaha no.

Tear us up, and stuff us down the drain.

Tony Soprano: HANDIN' OUT LIFE LESSONS ALL OVER DA PLACE

2009-10-22T12:39:00.000-07:00

Woke up this morning, got myself a gun...

It was Christmas of 2005 when I first witnessed the cinematic televison series, the Sopranos. My family had basic cable, so it wasn't until I received season 1 on dvd as a christmas gift that I was fully introduced to this great program. I'm not sure if you remember how much those dvd's used to cost, but four years ago, seasons 1 - 2 were $50 a pop, and 3-5 were $100. I didn't have that kind of money (I still don't) so I'd have to wait every year for a birthday or Christmas to come along before I could see what happened next in my beloved series. In fact, I hadn't gotten past season 4 until earlier this month, when, perusing a local record store, I came across seasons 5 and 6 for only $25 each.

Score.

I scooped 'em both up (didn't have enough cash for season 6 part 2, unfortunately) and have been watching ever since.

I really love this show, not gonna lie. It's not perfect, but hey, what is (excluding Arrested Development)? The only real issue I have with the Sopranos is that it sometimes leaves me
feeling like I'm a horrible person.

How?

Let's make a list: End of Season 5, anger management episode
Basically, Tony discusses his anger issues in therapy and Janice actually takes anger management. What hit such a chord with me was the dialogue about why Tony gets so angry and how he expresses that anger. Tony explained that he didn't like to have to wait or deal with other people's mistakes (like, let's say you miss a bus because some group of assholes walking slower than your 90 year-old grandfather is taking up the whole sidewalk and there's no way of getting around them) because he was above that. I know that's wrong, but goddamn, I feel that exact way.

Here's another example: let's say you're waiting patiently in line and someone cuts in front of you for whatever reason. A normal person will just brush it off, but I will start to fume and imagine and relish in the the idea that I could just grab that fucking cocksucker by the back of the hair and repeatedly smash his/her face into the the edge of a counter/wall/solid object before he/she even realizes what's happening. Psychotic, right? I guess, but I never act on it.

Which leads me to the question: Does anyone else feel this way as well? Or am I really that fucked up?

Another subject that interested me in the anger management episode was how Tony dealt with bad news/unexpected shit. He broke stuff. Lots of stuff. Fuck me, but I do the same thing. I've never had a cell phone for longer than one year. Why? Because I always have one on me and it's always the first thing I grab to smash/rip apart/throw at someone. I've put my fist and elbow through doors and windows. I've almost broken my foot and hand by punching and kicking walls. It's fucked. I don't want to do it. I don't like breaking my shit. My last cell phone had a ton of great pictures on it and I ripped it in half/smashed it halfway to hell that there's absolutely no way I can recover those photos. That's my life I lost. It sucks. I hate it. I need free anger management classes because I'm starting to lose myself. My moral codes and boundaries are beginning to fail me and it's scary sometimes.

Two weeks ago, my parents came to visit for my girlfriend's birthday. We went out to eat at a terrible restaurant that made us wait 2 HOURS for our food. I'm not exaggerating here, and it wouldn't have been so bad had we not seen people walk in 45 minutes after we did and get their full course served first. My dad politely asked what was wrong and they never gave us an answer. In other words, they fucked up and didn't want to take the blame for it. I was able to shrug that off. However, the real issue was that my mother had a very important meeting to make right after dinner, and we had not planned on being there for nearly 3 hours.
So, when dinner finally came, we had to shovel it down and hurry back to the car so I could take my mother to her meeting a few minutes away.

The shit didn't hit the fan till I got to Fifth Ave. I was waiting patiently at a red light to cross the five-lane-hell-fest that is Fifth when my light turned green. Yet thanks to a few assholes who obviously don't know what a redlight is, the intersection was completely blocked. In other words, I would have to wait through a whole nother set of lights because of these intersection-blocking-cocksuckers. And my mother was already late.

I lost it. I ran up as close as I could to the Escalade that was blocking the intersection and I just laid on the horn.

At this point, my parents and girlfriend were telling me to stop and not worry about it, but I wouldn't listen. I mean, honestly, I wasn't doing anything that bad. This asshole blocking my lane knew what he was getting into anyway. In fact, had nothing else occurred, I would have only just kept hitting the horn, that's it. No harm done.

Then this kid in the back of the Escalade (probably 18-25) rolls down his window and gives me the finger.

All hell breaks loose in my mind.

I start screaming everything I can think, "Fuck you, asshole, I'll fucking kill you you dumb motherfucker, suck my cock you piece of shit faggot, you wanna fucking die you little bitch get out of your fucking car"...etc.

I had my fingers out, I started making jerk-off motions with my hands, just about everything offensive you can think of, I was saying or doing.

This, by the way, with my entire immediate living family in the vehicle.

I was so furious I was actually shaking and fumbling about while trying to figure out how to unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. The kid must have seen this because he immediately rolled up his window when he saw me attempting to get out of the car. Honestly, had I been able to, I would have probably gotten in a lot of trouble.

Thank god for shaky adrenaline.

When he rolled up his window, I gave up on trying to get out of the car. Instead, I kept mouthing "I'll fucking kill you" as clearly as possible, hoping that he could read lips. I also ignored everyone else in the car bitching about my behavior.

I don't know.

I'm losing it.

When I'm having a shit day and past the point of rational thinking, I'll shoulder people in my fucking way on the street/sidewalk/etc. I cut in line. I turn into an asshole, just like the rest of society.

Which brings me back to Tony Soprano. There was another episode in the beginning of season 6 that showcased what life would be like for Tony Soprano if he wasn't in the mafia. Basically, it was Tony taking shit from everyday people that in reality, he would have beat up, killed, and disappeared.

You know what I was thinking?
....

Top Ten Reasons Why I'm Gay: NUMBER 1!

2009-10-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

I shouldn't even be typing this right now since I've been working 12 hours straight on two separate midterm projects. FML...and, well, FWP's I guess, too. Lame. School's the shit and all but I'm pretty sure I'm not doing what I'd like to do for the rest of my life. I need to be more disciplined and actually sit down and write every day but it's hard to do when you've got 24 hours a week just devoted to an internship, school, bills, apartment to clean, cat to take care of...and on top of it all I'm going to add running three miles a day to my schedule in order to get my fatass back in shape. I hate being a fatty. Weird side to that, though?
More looks from chicks (although this is null and void to me since I have a wonderful girlfriend).
When I was super skinny, I'd only get those weird girls who liked skinny guys, but now that I'm "big" (husky? fuck if I know, but I sure as hell ain't toned) I get looks from girls that used to probably be cheerleaders or whores in years earlier. I'm not used to that, and I sure as hell don't understand why attractive girls like fat dudes and not skinny ones. I mean, I was skinny and shit, but at least I was toned. I had abs, for fucks sake! Now, if I don't start exercising in the next month, my New Year's Resolution will probably be to look down and see my own dick again. I've got 100 Resolutions, but I've got no solutions...well, yeah, I guess I do, running. Fuck you, Chris.

I digress.

I was watching Paranormal State the other night and a commercial for some Lysol kitchen wipes came on. They were extra tough and had dysinfecting superpowers and whatnot and the lady wiped her dirty-ass oven and it was sparkly clean and, well, you get the picture. What was odd to me, however, was at that very moment my mind contemplated the thought of, "man, I cannot wait to have a lot of extra money so that one day I can buy those and really clean my area of dwelling."
I shit you not. I actually thought that.
My next thought, of course, was suicide. Let's face it, how fucking far have I fallen that I'm now thinking of goddamn wipes as some sort of holy grail of middle class awesomeness?
I guess what I'm trying to get at is that for the first time in a very long time, I found myself asking (myself), "Just who the fuck am I?"
I still don't know.

cause I can dish it out, but I can't take it...

2009-10-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

So right now I'm poor. Like, epically poor. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm on the same level K-Fed was when he was sucking dick in the back-alleys of LA's finest for a dimebag before he married that rich whore and then divorced her just as quick (say what you want, but that was one hell of a smart move on his part).
While my stomach is still free of semen (at the moment), I'm really starting to feel the pressure of being stuck in such a low SES. Now, I can't complain too much because I have a roof over my head as well as enough noodles for the next three weeks to survive (I hope), but it sucks wondering if something unexpected will occur in that time frame that I won't be able to afford to fix. Health goes bad? I'm fucked. So is my girlfriend. Apartment gets robbed/burns down? We're both fucked again because I don't have the money to pay for renter's insurance anymore. Basically, I feel as if I'm going through life with my fingers crossed at all times just praying that nothing bad happens to us until we both have actual jobs that pay a living wage as opposed to a minimum one. No one should be forced to live like this, and yet the majority of people do. Yay for capitalism, right?
Seriously though, movie stars, athletes, the big money-making businessmen, do you really need all of that money? I appreciate what you do, don't get me wrong, it's just that I really think you're overpaid. You don't need all that money to survive, bro. Let's say you make $14 mil this year. I understand you're never going to see all 14 of those millions. After taxes, maybe you'll take a cool $7 mil cut. Not bad. Not bad at all when you consider that 96% of Americans will never make that much in their entire lives. So, when you're taking home that much bank, why don't you just donate some of it? Like, let's say, half? 3.5 mil to a charity or non-profit in your city would go a hell of a long way. Now imagine if every rich fuck did the same. Shit, no more poverty in this country, at least, right?
Now, if a ran the world, you'd be donating about 5 mil of that 7, because, well, I don't think anyone needs more than 2 million a year to survive "comfortably." Seriously, dawg, you don't need that mansion in New York, a vacation home in the Keys, and a log cabin in...wherever the fuck rich people go to blow snow up their asses. You just don't. I live in a two-bedroom apartment that comprises the bottom floor of a house. You know what? I am fucking happy, minus the fact that I have to worry about paying the bills. If I didn't have that issue, I'd be extremely content right now. So why do other people feel the need to own two houses, four vacation homes, and an illegal immigrant labor force the size of Mexico City? $500,000 car? Hell yeah! Fuck the starving children living in the poor black section of the city just two miles down the road, I gotta cruise in style!
Wouldn't you hate yourself for that? I would. Just knowing that I spent money that could have kept a family warm through the winter months but instead wasted it on my own selfish wants...fuck, how can people live with themselves? You don't need that shit, man. It's fake. I know you probably have a tough job, but hey, you're making the money for it...and it's way too much. I just can't imagine a job out there where the person working it thinks, "man, this shit is soooooo tough. I totally deserve the millions upon millions that I'm making!" Unless you've been the unfortunate soul assigned to removing the barnacles that have attached themselves between Danny DeVito's ass cheeks, I really don't think you have that bad of a time.
You work long hours? So what? So does that young woman who has two kids and two minimum wage jobs. I bet she works just as long and hard (that's what she said!) as you do, and I'd also bet she'd trade you positions in a heartbeat. So you have more responsibilities, or, to be specific, more important ones? Okay, but that doesn't mean what she's doing is any less difficult. Trading stocks on the phone is no less easy than dealing with asshole customers and cleaning toilets all day. Both are just as shitty, but one is a hell of a lot more glamorous.
I don't know, the world is just crazy when you sit back and think about it. I was in a local, family owned hardware store today and the older gentlemen who was probably the son of the original owner was helping me out and was super friendly. The whole time I was thinking, "wow, you don't get service like this anymore and yet I bet this place is fucking struggling to survive." I really hope I'm wrong about that, but let's face it, big box chains have ruined this country in so many ways.
To put my experience in comparison, I went to a Home Depot last week in a predominately African American area that has been struggling for years. Yet these big chains have started moving in to try to "revitalize" the community by offering employment opportunities for the poor and under-educated people in the area. Sure, awesome idea and I'm sure it's helping a few people. But when you put it under the microscope, how much is it really helping? Minimum wage only goes so far, and it shows by how the workers treat you when you walk in the store. Good luck trying to find help, because no one in that place really gives a shit. You know what? I can't blame them, either. They're making shit pay in order to survive in their shit house/apartment in a shit area. I wouldn't give two fucks about the cocksuckers that walk into my store either. Yet when I went to the family-owned store, I hadn't taken two steps before that guy started helping me around the store.
Just think about that. It blows my mind and super-depresses me when I do. Yet there's people out there who think capitalism is still working for our country and that as long as you work hard you can succeed. Okay...but all those people who are preaching this train of thought are the same ones making a shitton of money, aren't they? I would love to ask each and every one of them how they came into their position of power because if I were to make just a quick guess, I'd say more than half inherited the business through their parents, while 30% or so had some serious connections. Maybe 20% are actually hardworking dudes who made it from rags to riches? I don't know, man, but looking around America, all I see are a bunch of self-righteous rich assholes who got where they are through inheritance and luck.
Dear Ronald Reagan Ghost: can you trickle-down some of that luck? Cause I'm all out of inheritance.

By the way, that hardware store is in the South Side, near 18th Street on East Carson. I will never shop anywhere else but there ever again.

The Paranormal-ly Retarded

2009-10-05T10:32:00.001-07:00

It’s that time of year again. School’s back in session, football’s in full swing, and the few people that actually give a shit about the NHL are emerging from their parent’s basements in anticipation of the new season. That means it’s fall, bitches, and while leaves migrate to the south and birds drop dead from branches, the mentally retarded everywhere are using Halloween as their excuse to dress up as pop culture icons and get extremely shit-faced. What does this mean for you? Well, if you like parties where all the girls come dressed (or underdressed) as Lindsay Lohan and the only way to tell them apart is how far their camel-toes hang between their legs, then you, sir, are in for a treat. As for the rest of us that prefer our women to have class and be less full of AIDS, we generally like to sit around in the chill air telling ghost stories, visiting actual haunted houses, and shitting our pants in fear to A&E’s Paranormal State (or is that just me?).

Kristen Bell: so classy, and so not full of AIDS.

I am a sucker for the paranormal. Let’s just get that out there. I’m not sure if it’s the cheap scares or the “wonder” of the unknown, but I love ghost shows and haunted houses. The funny part is that I don’t even believe in half that shit. I’d love to believe in it. Hell, I’d love for it to be real. But to be honest, I’m the dude in the group that goes to the haunted house and starts screaming, “You’re not real you pussy-ass ghosts and if you are real, then Scott Baio fucked your mom!” Then I play the Misfit’s Last Caress, hoping beyond hope that something will show it’s face. It never does.

The face that fucks dead people’s mothers.

But why? Why isn’t there any evidence? There are literally dozens of “real life” ghost shows on television, and yet not one has ever captured a real ghost on film. Sure, stuff has been thrown around, lots of “strange” noises have been heard, and people have even been temporarily “possessed” or “attacked,” but yet no actual hard proof has ever turned up. What the fucking fuck?

Let’s look at a show like Paranormal State. The set up: a group of students from PSU go to locations where supposed paranormal activity is taking place. They place about a million cameras at the site and then go to work, trying to figure out who the ghost is, where it’s from, what it wants, and, most importantly, if it could have sex with any person on earth who would it be and why? Then, when the ghost has finally debated for hours over Charlize Theron or Hillary Clinton, they whip out their proton packs and positron discharge all over those ghostly fuck’s faces.

Ghost Hunters, on the other hand, is the story of two dudes who plunge shit from toilets during the day and then plunge shapeshifting shit from people’s attics at night. The show has a similar premise: go to a paranormal hotspot and find the sneaky dead bastards that are ruining late-night booty calls. The only difference is that Ghost Hunters just visit an area and try to prove that ghosts are indeed there. They really don’t do anything about it except tell the owners to call a priest and stick their dick in the sand and pray…or something like that.

While both shows are slightly different, they do share one important thing in common: neither has ever captured a paranormal spirit on camera/film/etch-a-sketch. Odds are that if you place a camera in every room at every possible angle that you’ll catch something eventually. Well, the odds must hate ghost investigators because we’re nearing the 200 year anniversary of the first photograph and we still ain’t got shit.

Much like any recording device, the Etch-a- Sketch is a true ghost repellent.

Now, you may be asking yourself, “But there’s video of tables moving and cups being thrown and Linda Blair fucking herself with a crucifix. Isn’t that enough evidence?” The short answer is no, you dumb fuck hillbilly. I want proof. I want solid, indisputable proof that yes, the paranormal exists, yes you can finally talk to your dead grandparents without having to slit your own writs first, and that yes, I should probably stop mocking demons about how they must be closet-homos since they’re always so damn angry about life. Forget those stupid white orbs in still photographs that guys who have never been laid claim to be proof of the dead; let’s see a full motion video captured by CNN of that Japanese chick from the Grudge. Hell, I invite them to show up at my place right now as long as they give me time to get out my camera before they rip my soul straight out of my ass.

Honestly though, for beings that make a living after they die by haunting crazy people non-stop, you’d think they’d be starving little camera-whores just begging for attention. Instead, as soon as the film starts rolling, they all run and hide as if Bill Murray and Dan Akroyd just popped in to say hello. It simply makes no sense.

Here’s a test for you: next time you’re in your place of dwelling, turn off all the lights, any appliance that could make a sound, and kick your pets out in the backyard for just a few minutes. Now, sitting there in complete silence, make a note every time you hear a “strange” noise. Ghosts? Probably not. No matter where you live, no matter how old your house is, there’s always going to be something making a slight noise or weird vibrations in your ear. Whether it’s the foundation creaking, an old wooden board in your floor expanding or contracting due to slight temperature changes, or even the wind or a bird on your roof, chances are that “silence” you’re sitting in really isn’t going to be all that silent due to the natural world around you. This is why I think all those shows “fail” in trying to prove that the paranormal actually exists. Most of the places these shows visit are extremely old, and they use that as backing evidence that there would be more spiritual activity due to the countless people that have died there over the years. The truth is, however, is that the older a building gets, the more noises it’s naturally going to make. You’re visiting an old mental institution that’s been abandoned for thirty years? That’s not some long-dead crazy dude making those scratching and thumping noises in the hallways, that’s just mice in the walls or something falling apart.

I'm under ur bed, humpin' your mattress.

To the guys and gals from Penn State: I’m really not hating on you. In fact, I think you all have awesome jobs and I’d even sign up to be on the team if given the chance. I’d love to be the skeptic disbeliever in your group, always providing the audience with a reasonable explanation. And if I couldn’t find a reasonable explanation to something? Well, I’d own up and honestly express my confusion and inability to comprehend what I saw. Fair deal, right? The same goes out to you Ghost Hunters and everyone else out there with the sweet employment of trying to explain the unexplained. But until I actually see some real proof (like a ghost inside one of those floor traps used in the movies), I will continue to bust your balls in a critical yet loving way.
What’s that old saying? The simplest explanation is often the right one? I think the next time we’re all thinking about whether or not that growling noise coming from the basement might be Satan’s flatulent asshole, we should just use Occam’s Razor to slice through the television and film bullshit that’s bloated our imaginations to the point of stupidity.

Happy Halloween.

An Open Letter to the Steel City: HOW YOU HAVE NO RIGHTS IN THE EYES OF THE PITTSBURGH POLICE or MAYOR LUKE: PLEASE LEASH YOUR PIGS

2009-09-28T10:41:00.000-07:00

G-20, ALL UP IN UR GRILLLLLLL

Dear City of Pittsburgh:

YOU HAVE NO RIGHTS IN THE EYES OF THE PITTSBURGH POLICE.

And yet your stupidity amazes me. I almost feel as if I've been transported into some sort of Twilight Zone episode in which 3/4 of your citizens have the mental capacity of a four-year-old child who has just discovered his penis, or, in short, Rush Limbaugh after he sees a half-gallon bottle of prescription pills. Basically, I want to rip my hair out and scream at every single one of you who apparently doesn't see the big picture or just thinks that the police are right 100% of the time. But I digress.

Dear Mayor Luke:

PLEASE LEASH YOUR PIGS.

Police brutality. It's a bitch. Having never witnessed it first hand (hey, I'm white, I generally don't have to worry about that shit) it came as quite a shock to see so much of it over the past weekend. I want you to know that I no longer feel safe on your streets, and have been so disillusioned by your hate-mongering stormtroopers that I cannot wait to move to a city that does not allow the unlawful beating and arrest of its citizens (wherever the fuck that might be).

Now, before I go any further, I have to warn you, Pittsburgh, that this is going to be an extremely angry letter. The atrocities that have taken place just a few streets from where I live on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday have just about put me over the edge. You've been, uh, warned.

Now, where to start? Ah, I think I know. Come, Pittsburghers, for a joy-ride in my DeLorean...

One year ago:

I'm in my car, driving home from a 14 hr day in a 30 degree environment on a production line. In short, I'm fucking exhausted. I have the windows down and RX Bandits blasting from the stereo. As I'm approaching my driveway, I notice a cop car parked in a used car lot just a few houses down. When I type "notice," I mean I see it but pay little attention because I was already slowed down waaaaay below the speed limit in order to turn into my driveway. So I drive past, no thought to the officer, and pull into my driveway and around the back of the house. My driveway is shaped like an L, and I was parked in the bottom of the L, with no vantage point of the upper part (keep this in mind as the story goes on). I grab my lunchbag and cell phone and step out of the car only to hear screaming directed at the back of my head.

"Get the fuck back into your car!"

As stated before, I'm tired as shit, and now all of a sudden some one's yelling at me to get back in my car. My first thought was not "Oh shit, that must be a police officer, I better be a good little boy and obey!" No, my first thought was, "What the fuck is this?" and "Who the fuck does this person think he is?" Oh, and I also turned around. Big mistake. I turn my head to see just who exactly is telling me so politely to "get the fuck back in my car" and am greeted by the happy image of an officer with his hand on his gun. I am a little shocked, to say the least.

"Turn the fuck back around right fucking now and get the fuck back in your car or I will use fucking force!"

I am still in shock at this point. I'm dead tired, ready to relax, and instead, face-to-face with what appears to be the most foul-mouthed police officer in the state (with his hand on his gun, no less). So, it takes him swearing at me one more time before I get back in my car, still confused and to tell you the truth, a little frightened.

It's probably a good thing that this happened after a 14 hr day at work. To be honest, had it been just a normal day and my brain had been working at 100%, I probably would have snapped back at the guy with "Fuck you, dude" or "Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?" before being tasered, beaten, or shot to the ground.

Instead, I comply.

He comes around, says I was speeding.

Bullshit.

I was already slowed down to turn into my driveway before he even saw me.

I say that, and state that he didn't need to have has hand on his gun and threaten me.

He says I didn't obey.

I didn't fucking obey. Unbelievable.

Now I understand why so many people are shot in the back while running from the cops.

"Hey, why'd you shoot that little girl in the back?"

"I told her to stop and she didn't obey."

"Well, what'd she do? Why'd she run?"

"She stole from Walmart...AND SHE DIDN'T FUCKING OBEY."

Steal from Walmart, and they steal your soul.

Although I still haven't figured out just where the hell this rent-a-cop has come from, I have time to put the pieces together while he writes out my speeding ticket. The reason I never saw the cop was because he parked in the upper part of the L-driveway, just far enough that his car was hidden by my house. He's also local. I tell him that I'll see him in court, and that he doesn't have a chance in hell of winning. He must have taken that to heart because one month later my ticket is thrown out because he never shows to the court date. I repeatedly listen to NWA's "Fuck the Police" for three months straight.

Let's fast-forward to last week. My anger towards law enforcement had died down a bit. In fact, thanks to the media, I was more worried about the protesters lighting my apartment on fire than the massive police presence that would be in the area. I thought, "I don't care what the protesters do as long as they don't destroy shit. But if they do that, the police should be able to take them down."

Ah, how naive I was.

The truth of situation, Pittsburgh, is that the vast majority of protesters were peaceful, or intended to be peaceful. Instead, you decided to deny most of the peaceful groups permits in order to protest. Instead of letting these people have their message known, you kept them imprisoned in a constant police barrage of LRAD's, rubber pullets, and tear gas. And then you got mad when they got violent.

To all Pittsburghers: Violence Breeds Violence.

You'd have thought Mayor Luke would have heard that one before, especially since he spends so much time with the African American community.

Alas, being the idiot he is, Mayor Luke instead gives a speech about how great the G-20 went and how it was such a success for the city of Pittsburgh...meanwhile this shit is happening:

Kidnapping
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G8CNa_viKg0

Police Brutality
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J23HNJBbpcg

...and more Police Brutality
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPeXRozN6vQ

Basically, just type in police brutality and Pittsburgh G-20 and you'll find hundreds of videos. It's frightening. What little rights we already have are completely obliterated when 40 officers in full riot gear and a raging hard-on are in your face and ready to fuck you in the ass till it bleeds. The tactics of the Pittsburgh police last weekend consisted of completely surrounding a crowd (cutting off all exits) then repeatedly telling said crowd to disperse or they will be arrested. Um, disperse where? Of course, everyone in the crowd that was encircled would then be arrested and held for up to 14 hours (illegally, by the way) before being let go...unless the cops really didn't like you, in which case you'd be slapped with a few misdemeanors.

Is this that "socialism" that everyone is worried about? No, it's more like communism. And the amazing thing about all the illegal activities that the police carried out over last week is that Pittsburgh citizens are actually defending them. Defending them! The best part about this is that those defending the police are the same mentally challenged groups that are so afraid of Obama's national healthcare taking away their freedoms and creating a socialist state.

Because we all know that universal healthcare = the end of capitalism = your freedoms: gone= instant ban on big gas-guzzling trucks/SUVs = ban on all guns = OMG THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD.

Attention: all morons supporting the police actions of the G-20 - you are supporting fascism, which, by the way, is pretty damn close to communism, which, according to your beloved Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh, is just one slippery slope away from the dreaded socialism you so fear (which will be brought on by giving small dying children healthcare which could save their lives).

FUCK THOSE CHILDREN, MAN, I WANT TO DRIVE MY DURANGO THROUGH THE WOODS WHILE KILLING ANIMALS BECAUSE THAT'S THE ONLY WAY MY SMALL-MINDED CONSERVATIVE BRAIN CAN ACTUALLY PROCESS PLEASURE SINCE MY DICK WAS DESTROYED IN A TRAGIC MAGIC BULLET MASTURBATORY ACCIDENT.

It wants you to fuck it.

Okay...I'm furious now. Time to calm down.

It's hard though, because I just don't understand why more people aren't as furious as I am. Yes, I am familiar with the incident this spring in which three Pittsburgh officers where senselessly killed over dog piss (no joke), but that does not give them a free ticket to do whatever they want and for us to ignore it simply because it might be in bad taste. Fuck that. I don't care how many officers have died in the past over a stupid situation, because it has NEVER and WILL NEVER be okay to beat innocent citizens in America. I know it happens, and I'm sure it actually happens all the time, but when are we, as one society, regardless of political affiliations, going to stand up and fight against it? The events surrounding the G-20 could have been the inciting incident that finally brought police brutality to conscious minds of all, but instead it only created more excuses for the police to continue their fascist behaviors. Good job, Pittsburgh, only you could have fucked that opportunity over.

So, for that, I say fuck you, Ed Rendell and Dan Onorato.

Mayor Luke: you're a douche and no one likes you. There. Someone had to fucking say it already.

And Pittsburgh, well...you're going to have one hell of a time redeeming yourself in my eyes. Although getting rid of all those "Stillers" fans would be a good start.

Frodo Teabaggin's Your Face

2009-09-23T10:52:00.001-07:00

So far, it has been a rather uneventful morning. After neglecting hundreds of incoming emails over the summer, I finally decided to sit down today to go through and read/delete/spam when appropriately. Generally, I only receive emails from Barack Obama (yeah, that’s right, bitches), Rockstar informing me of the newest Gay Tony updates (if you have no idea what any of that means, I’ll leave it to your imagination), and my mom sending me whatever horrible chain letters she might find funny or witty but that anyone under the age of fifty would never find funny or witty.

When I thought all hope was lost for any sort of interesting find (which generally includes porn spam or articles informing me of Alex Ovechkin’s newest gay tribute tramp stamp), I stumbled across a petition that had been mass emailed to thousands of people.

That’s Chinese for “loves getting boarded from behind by men with hard wood in hand.”

Now, petition emails aren’t uncommon and frankly aren’t all that interesting to me. Stop clubbing seals, let women make their own decisions, free the slaves, stop eating babies…blabbity blabbity blah blah blob. Yet, somehow, this one was different. Rather than informing me that I should stop raping farm animals, this particular petition involved – wait for it - teabagging. Now, to be honest, I hadn’t thought of teabagging since 2003, my senior year of high school. The reasons behind my blatant lack of fear for the past six years are one: I’m not in high school anymore and two: there hasn’t been a new Lord of the Rings movie (you know those filthy little hobbits were balls-out every off screen second they had). So to actually see the word and think about the act of teabagging once more was quite a fright, to put it lightly. I mean, I didn’t even know that you could send mass emails out from a legitimate organization and use the word teabag in them. Isn’t that political suicide? Isn’t that what caused John McCain to lose this past Presidential election? What, you don’t remember this? While eventually denied and suppressed, rumors surfaced in mid-October of 2008 of Sen. McCain’s alleged “Teabag of Freedom” laid upon former Sen. Joe Biden’s face one late night in Washington D.C. Later rumors questioned whether the balls used in the attack where instead Gov Sarah Palin’s. Fox News, of course, claims none of it to be true (yeah, and Glenn Beck doesn’t jump from Japanese whaling ships and strangle endangered whales just for the fuck of it). Regardless, I decided to struggle through the repressed memories of years ago and delve deeper into this strange article of teabagging shenanigans.

Potentially puts balls on your face and then doesn’t call the next day.

Just one sentence in and I’m hit harder than a dog in the face by a baseball bat in the palms of Michael Vick. To be frank, I’m in shock. This petition, this filthy, disgusting, anal leakage of a petition wants me to protest the teabag protesters. Are these people fucking insane? I mean, who the fuck is actually pro-teabagging? I can’t imagine anyone, regardless of sexual orientation, is actually a pro-teabagger. The last I heard, teabagging had been made illegal in most states anyway (that’s more of a legitimate hope than a legitimate fact, by the way). And yet, like the confused juror staring at O.J.’s bloody gloves, I cannot in any logical way comprehend what I am now seeing.

Most definitely puts balls on your dog’s face until its dead…and then doesn’t call the next day.

I decide to delve deeper into this gaping hole of insanity by quickly googling “teabag protesters” to see who might be on my side of this startling issue (because if modern politics have taught us anything, there can be only two sides to every argument). Five hits down and I see articles by some insane teabagging-protestor-protester, which, in case you forgot, is the guy protesting the guys protesting teabagging (so in short, the fuckshit crazy ones). No good. I’m not in any particular mood to be brainwashed by dudes who think it’s okay to teabag at random. I continue on through the myriad mess of articles consuming my computer screen, hacking through the pubic hair and ballsacs like an ancient explorer armed only with a machete in the Amazon rain forest. Castrated monkeys fall from the branches of now extinct trees, and just when I think I can’t take another reference to teas and bags, I find them. The original teabag protesters. But I am disappointed.

Really dude? I have constant nightmares about your balls in my mouth already.

Rush Limbaugh? Sean Hannity? Ann Coulter? BILL O’REILLY!?!?!? But how...? My brain shuts down. Perhaps it’s because of the horrid realization that the only people that have my back on this issue are the same ones that still believe Noah created humans by killing the dinosaurs (which are lies made up by the Jews, duh) and that one day apes will enslave mankind and our only hope is that Charlton Heston rises again like the second coming of Christ and transforms into a giant gun. Or maybe that for a split-second I imagined Ann Coulter teabagging Limbaugh while getting fucked in the ass by Hannity. The truth is, we may never really know.

It’d be like Skeletor getting butt-fucked by Hitler while dipping his nuts in Jabba the Hutt’s face.

Two hours later, I wake up in a cold sweat. I frantically reach towards my face. Thank god, no balls. Still, I’m not completely safe. I run to the bathroom, skipping over my kitten as he appears to be licking his own balls. You dirty little pussy, I think. Here I am worried about the moral and societal implications this proposed teabag amendment of legality could ensue upon this great country and you’re putting your own balls to your chin. I ought to give you to the Chinese that live next door. Fucker.

Putting my sudden hatred towards my pro-teabag pet aside, I check my face in the mirror, praying that I don’t find the dreaded “Double Dutch Ding Dong Ditch Fruit Fly Eyes” on my forehead (that’s when testacles are dipped in ink before being applied to the forehead of the victim).

Like this, but with actual balls.

Nothing. I have escaped unharmed. But just what the fuck is going on? Was it all a nightmare?Did I go to sleep last night and suddenly wake up in Bizarro world? Right wing conservatives are all about not teabagging while liberals are lazily whipping their cock and balls out at every chance they get? It’s almost as if I can hear Greg Gutfeld whispering in my ear, “Where is your god now?” And it is at this very moment that I suddenly grasp and fully understand why people kill themselves.

Remember kids, it’s down the road not across the street.

Then, as if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, I spot a headline from the corner of my eye: Obama to 'tea-bag' protesters: I've already cut taxes. Holy fuck shit. Now, my first thought is, “this cannot be true in any way whatsoever.” And as if sent from the heavens themselves, a sign shows me that maybe this news article is indeed faked. The author, apparently, is named Rex Nutting. Ha-ha! Nice try, Mike Hunt. Who else rights articles for this “Market Watch,” Seymore Buttz and Ima Dick? But then, like a searing…something…through my…something, I glance upwards and see that the website is actually part of the fucking Wall Street Journal. So it’s official. The President of the United States is taking his precious time during the day (when he should be fighting poverty, curing cancer, and pissing off conservatives everywhere) to place his nutsack on innocent civilian faces. This, ladies and gentlemen, is apocalypse now. Or at least the plot to Orwell’s 1984. Big Brother: pinning you down and putting his balls in your mouth and if you don’t like it…THOUGHTCRIME BITCH. I think George won the Pulitzer that year. And Michael Bay will be using that tagline for the movie adaptation of 1984, coming to a theatre near you as soon as Transformers 9: Hot Fox Tits wraps up shooting.

Well, at least I’ll have a naked Meghan Fox to look forward to in the future. It’s just too bad I’ll have to push through countless testacles to actually see anything that could be boner-inducing…not to mention the confusion that could occur from having a boner while male reproductive organs are on my face.

Fuck my life.

Fakes, Ghosting (finally), and the Art of Pissing Off Your Significant Other

2009-09-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

It’s been a busy weekend. I got to hang with two old friends, one that I’ve know since 7th grade (12 years now, FUCK I’M OLD), and one that I’ve known for about three years. Good times, although I had one friend read my latest blog and ask me, “dude, did that really happen?” Since my own friends are now questioning whether I really did jizz in my pants during a high school lecture, I wanted to clear something up: quickly scroll to the top of your screen and read my blog title. What, too lazy? Here: NOT A PINE, NOR AN APPLE, JUST A LIAR. You see, for the sake of comedic entitlement, I’ll sometimes lie. It’s fun, because it’s funny. Now, not everything is going to be a lie, but some of the funnier and more unbelievable shit (unless I specifically follow it with parenthesis stating truth like this (TRUE STORY)) is probably going to be a twisted version of the truth or completely made up. Like my jizz story. I hate to break it to all you pre-ejaculate losers out there who read it and gained some sort of creamy white glint of hope, but it was fake. Now, I’m sure sometime or another in high school I did ask a girl for a magazine that had Avril Lavigne on the cover, but the rest of the tall tale is indeed a tall tale.

Any questions? Good, glad I cleared that up. Moving on.

The sport of ghosting. Somewhat old news now but I promised you guys I’d explain it to you so here you go. Last week on the Jay Leno Show, there was a comedy skit involving two comedians from Australia. They decided to film themselves in the act of ghosting on the streets of L.A. Basically, ghosting consists of at least two people with timers. One person will be on the sidewalk or on a bench, acting nonchalant and trying to stay invisible. The other person will be out of view and further away with the timer. Then, when the person on the street spots someone that looks like an ideal target, he or she will quickly run (or walk) behind the target as close as possible and for as long as possible until the person notices. The player that can stay behind someone the longest wins. Sounds dumb, but it’s fucking hilarious. One of the guys got punched in the face by someone they were following. Again, how could that be awesome? It just is.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=peAtB_dFUh0

No, I didn’t get to try it this weekend mainly because I was completely shitfaced at all times and feared that my friends and I would go from high-fives of awesomeness to low-fives of “shit I hope this doesn’t end up on my record and more importantly that we’re not ass-raped in jail tonight.” Public intoxication in a college town is the easiest way to get 40+ hours of community service. Fuck that. Though I do promise to attempt this and take video on a sober night so look forward to that shit (if you have no life whatsoever).

Again, moving on.

Ex girlfriends. They have a bad habit of popping up in the most unexpected ways.

I was going through my old email account last night in search of stories and papers I had written in undergrad. You see, my old computer’s usb drives broke a long time ago, so for a few years in college I had to email all my papers back and forth between school and home. Two years later and I’m finally trying to put a portfolio together and believe it or not, I wrote some gems back in the day and I want them in that portfolio. Anyways, as I’m searching through my past, I come across a literal shit-ton of pictures that my ex sent me in 2007. On the surface, this isn’t really a bad thing. It’s like taking a trip through time to a completely different life that you’ve somehow forgotten. While not being nostalgic, it’s a good reminder of the shit that you’ve been through and the ups and downs of life. However, it’s totally not a good thing when your current girlfriend is sitting right next to you. Now, I know what you’re all thinking: why the fuck did you open that shit in front of her!? Are you fucking insane!? The short answer to that would be yes, I am fucking insane, but that blog is for a later time. The long answer goes like this:

Girlfriend: What are those pictures in your email?

Now, I know exactly what they are and who they’re from, so I do what any good boyfriend would do in this situation: lie through my teeth.

Me: Those? I have no clue. Probably spam or something. No big deal.

Girlfriend: No, they came from somebody’s cell phone. See? That’s the person’s number.

Me: Really? Wow, those damn spammers are getting more innovative every day, eh?

I don’t know if you girls have some sort of sixth sense that allows you to see directly into every male’s soul and his deepest darkest secrets at your feminine will, but it sure as fuck seems like it since I can’t even cover up the times I masturbate when she’s in another fucking state thanks to her photographic memory.

Girlfriend: Is that a jizz stain on the bed sheet? Is that a fucking jizz stain on my bed sheet!?

Me: What the fuck, no! That’s like sweat or maybe something from your vagina.

Girlfriend: That better not be from a vagina cause it sure as hell isn’t from mine. No, that’s a fucking jizz stain you little shit! Were you jerking it while I was gone!?

Seriously, it’s like I’m living in a bad episode of Psych, except Shawn and Gus have been replaced by a psychotic bitch who remembers every stain on the bed and how much jizz I produce on a normal day in order to curb my masturbation (TRUE STORY).

Just kidding babe, I love you. Please don’t tear my balls off. Thanks.

Girlfriend: So whose pictures are those?

At this point I know the gig is up. She somehow fucking guessed this shit before she even asked the first question. I suppose that’s what gets me. If you already fucking knew, why play coy? You’re just wasting my time and yours so get to the screaming already so I can get back to daydreaming about me in the middle of an Avril Lavigne and Milla Jovavich sandwich.

Ah, insta-boner.

After more lengthy dialogue involving my crafty lies and her sixth sense continually killing said lies faster than a toon dropped into a vat of dip, I finally capitulated and told her the truth. I then said that I didn’t want to look at the pictures and to drop the whole affair. Of course, that would have been the ideal way that this situation would have played out. She would have gone back to doing her school work and I would have kept looking for my old papers.

Instead, she wanted to see the pictures herself.

I already knew what would happen if I let her: she’d get angry (though she’d try not to show it) and jealous (though she’d completely deny it) and insecure (though she’d deny that too). But I also already knew what would happen if I didn’t let her see the pictures: she’d get angry (just at me) and jealous (that I’d be “protecting” my ex) and insecure (that “I couldn’t even look at pictures of an ex girlfriend. Dare say what would happen if I ever saw her in real life!?” Yeah, I’ll tell you what would happen, NOTHING). Though honestly I can’t get mad at my girlfriend simply because all girls are semi-retarded in the whole “ex” thing and if I were to lose my temper I’d just be lowering myself to the level of the vagina.

A prime example of lowering oneself to the level of the vagina.

In the end, she saw the pictures, showed all seven signs that she might be possessed by a Satanic demon (foaming at the mouth, speaking in tongues, head rotating a full 360 degrees, begging for anal, etc.), then got all dolled-up to go to class (extra make-up, tight pants, skanky top, crotch-less panties, etc).

Sometimes you just can’t win.

My Enflamed Ego/Boner and the Sport of Ghosting

2009-09-17T12:32:00.000-07:00

So yesterday's blog was filled with wet dreams of having people flame me over and over again in the comments section. Then, after posting it, exiting out, and going back to work, I tried accessing my own blog by googling it. What did I get? Other than the complete history of the pineapple and google repeatedly asking me, "did you mean pineapple?", I received a bruised ego and a quick kick of reality straight to the balls. My site will apparently stay in internet limbo until I suddenly have a tsunami of visitors. Will that ever happen? Probably not, and even if it does, who the fuck am I to think that people would even take the time to read this shit and hate it so much that they'd actually bother leaving a comment?

I'M FUCKING KANYE WEST, THAT'S WHO, MOTHERFUCKERS. My opinion is apparently the only one that matters in the entire world. Shit, I better start typing like a seven-year-old so that it looks more like authentic Kanye.

"yo taylr i luvd ur vid but bee-yawn-says was sooooooooooooooooo mutch betterz!!! Sorryy babes i dont make da truthz i just tells it! OOoOOOoooOOhHHhhh!!!! Boo the Kanye bitchz, cuz that jus meens less peeps i gotta save when i come again...Rapture! ...u guys get it? im Jesus, yo, and bee-yawn-says my ex-Virgin Mary!"

Seriously, the guy must really believe he's Jesus or something. And not to be nit-picking here or anything but did anyone else chuckle softly to themselves when they saw his hair? It looked like a giant maze straight out of Highlights magazine and all I wanted to do was solve that shit. Must be one hell of a maze because the two mice that normally power Kanye's brain are having a hell of time getting back to their wheels, as proven during the VMA's.

But enough of this shit. I quit watching the VMA's when I was still in high school, and the only reason I ever watched them was to catch a glimpse of Avril Lavigne, my own personal version of Viagra. I was 16, my libido was still running strong enough for me to jerk off to the newest Field & Stream magazine, and just the quickest sight of Avril would cause me to get an insta-boner. Now, the thing about insta-boners is this: they're fucking awesome. They are what they sound like, an instant boner. I would kill today to still be able to get insta-boners. I mean, yeah, sometimes I'll be sitting there, watching Dora the Explorer and bam! I have a hard-on and the only cure is more Dora. But that's few and far between. When i was 16, insta-boners were a common occurance, and mainly because Avril was at the peak of her career. Yet insta-boners caused a lot of problems for me, especially in public.

And I jizzed in my pants.

Let's look at a day of my life in high school, age 16, insta-boners all the time.

Me: Hey, is that Avril on the cover of your magazine?
Random Girl: Yeah, she sucks.
Me: No she's not, Avril's fucking hot! (Reason #334 why I'm not getting laid in high school)
Random Girl: Um...okay?

Now, at this point, this chick can probably see the drool starting to run down my lips and is looking for any excuse to get me to stop staring at her desk and away from her personal area. Plus, the boner in my pants is directly perpendicular (haha, DICular!) to her eye level and she's probably praying that she doesn't turn into an accidental victim of skullfucking should I suddenly feel the urge to pelvic thrust in her direction. So, as any creeped-out young woman would do, she goes for the old decoy tactic.

Random Girl: You want it? I've already read most of it and I don't like Avril anyways.
Me: Oh my god, thank you!

While at this point I should have been more excited over the fact that I was actually speaking to a girl, instead, I'm over taken by the jerk-off material I now possess. In fact, my mind is so focused on how many times I'll be masturbating after school that I fail to even notice my insta-boner until I wack it (pun intended) off the side of my desk as I go to sit back down.

Oh shit, I think. Did she just see my dick? I glance over to where random girl is sitting. She's gathered a few of her friends around and is now making dirty faces and using her thumb and index finger to measure what looks to me like a small, approximately two-inch sized object.

Since it is so easy to live my life in denial, I tell myself I am safe and that she must not have been paying attention. Let therapy costs deal with this moment ten year's from now.

Glancing back down at the Ark of the Dick-Jerking Covenant, I am overwhelmed by Avril's perfect features, her hair cascading down her head like shreds of velvet, her supple, smooth breasts that rise up like small - and then I feel it. A slow, wet, oozing sensation that just dripped from my penis like the unholy spew that runs from Glenn Beck's mouth anytime he hears the words "liberal" or "jew." Attention, everyone in the classroom, I just jizzed in my pants (later on, I would learn that announcing my predicament to the entire class was my first mistake).

And that's the main issue with insta-boners: you can't control them. Sure, it's all fun and games when you're at home, in your room, jerking off every thirty minutes until your dick just finally gives up and starts coughing up a fine, white powder. But when you're in tenth grade and still wearing those jeans with the little side stitch for a hammer and dreaming about sticking your dick up the asshole of the girl in the third row, randomly jizzing at any time tends to become a huge fucking hassle.

I'm not going to go into details about how I tried to cover up the situation (and frankly I'm not sure how much of it I can fully disclose anyways due to court issues and restraining orders). What I can tell you though is that I've been banned from ever owning a subscription to 17 magazine as well as using desks in the 11th and 12th grades. Just use your imagination.

I guess the upside to all of this is that I've been living with my girlfriend for over a year-and-a-half now and she bears a striking resemblence to Avril Lavigne. See kids? Living proof that you can be a pre-ejeculate loser in high school and still strike it big in the later years (although I have to be more careful because she's starting to lose patience with the whole "screaming Avril's name when I get an orgasm deal").

Anyways, I was also going to discuss "ghosting" in today's blog but instead got so caught up in searching for Avril Lavigne n00dz that I've wasted all my time. Next time, kids. Just remember to remind me.

Hello, Blogging World

2009-09-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

It's me. Finally. The writer you've all been waiting for. I'm the equivalent of having consensual sex with the girl you crushed on through six years of high school but never had the balls to even look in the eyes. I'm the clit piercing that gives you an orgasm every time you walk up the stairs. I'm Walmart, and you're the poor conservative from the Bible Belt. I'm the Highlander, and there can be only one. For you simpler folk, I'm peanut butter and you're jelly. And for those of you who simply cannot wrap your head around any sort of somewhat-clever metaphor, I'M THE BEST DAMN WRITER YOU'RE EVER GOING TO HAVE THE PLEASURE TO READ. ASSHOLE.

All joking aside, I haven't posted a blog since I had a Xanga in my senior year of high school. In 2003/2004. Does Xanga even exist anymore? I fucking hope not, because the shit I used to post on there was really embarrassing (not that the shit I'm going to post on here will be any less embarrassing, just possibly less pathetic).

Fuck, I'm getting old. Yet not wiser, only less socially awkward.

So why am I posting again? You can blame the badsandwichchronicles. I figured, fuck, if some asshole from a shitty band can post terrible blogs about his kid and dog shit and making a movie about pedophilia, then what the fuck am I waiting for? He's even got 30 some people commenting on every blog telling him how funny it is! Now, granted, this guy's articles might actually be humorous, but, I refuse to read them. Instead, all those comments are probably just a pathetic cry for help from groupies that would suck this band-guy's dick and swallow his cum before you can say "ramblin boys of pleasure," if you catch my drift.

Mama didn't try hard enough, dick.

Anyways, I write a few funny articles every once in awhile, share them with the harshest critics (my friends), then lock them away to collect dust (the articles, not my friends). Now, for some idiotic reason, I've decided to post my work for all you internet trolls that 99% of the time have nothing nice to say. Frankly, your "harsh" criticism wouldn't be so bad if most of you could actually create insults that reside higher than your fifth grade reading comprehension. Unfortunately for me (and your intelligence), I'll probably be stuck with grade school insults such as "Get fucked" or "You suck." Clever.

Then, on the other side of the spectrum, I'll have those pretentious assholes that made it through one year of art school before flunking out, viciously attacking my comment section with all the voracity a skinny 19-year-old college drop-out can muster (which, suffice to say, isn't much). I always imagine your types to be horrifically ugly, hiding behind dyed-black strands of hair, furiously masturbating at the hopes that some ingenious flame will spontaneously appear from your fingertips the same time your 2-inch penis erupts all over the bottom of your computer desk. One worthless seed deserves another, eh?

Wow. That whole analogy was probably way too vague, long, and confusing, but to be honest with you, I don't really give a fuck. You see, this blog will be a hodgepodge of shit. Sometimes I'll just rant about daily things in my life, trying to be funny but not really giving a shit about sentence structure, timing, or comprehension (unfortunately, all those things are needed to be amusing. Oh well.). Other times I will try to be funny and worry about sentence structure, timing, and comprehension. I will still fail. Rarely, I will try to be funny, worry about sentence structure, timing, and comprehension, AND succeed. Unfortunately, this will only occur when I'm making a dead baby joke. Also, this joke will be on the same level of "ha-ha" as Dane Cook and Carlos Mencia, making it legal in 28 states to kill me, no questions asked.

With humour like that, I pray for death.

Welcome, to the Pining Apple.