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

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

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

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

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

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.