I’m not Jerry Seinfeld, fuckface!

Why don't they make a bumper sticker that simply says "Fuck You"? I mean, it's so obvious that one of those should exist, that one of them belongs on my car. I suppose I could make one. Hell, I could save myself a trip to Kinko's and just spraypaint "Fuck You" on my car. Hmmm.... Nah. Then I'd just be one of those bastards with "Fuck You" spraypainted on his car.

I still regret not buying a bumper sticker at a truckstop somewhere in Wisconsin 9 years ago that read "If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport". My girlfriend talked me out of it. That bitch!  Ultimately, that's why we wound up breaking up.

I saw some reprehensible member of the human race shortly after the World Trade Center blew up who had written "Don't Mess With The U.S." on a sheet of notebook paper and taped it up in the rear window of her beat up minivan. I could tell just by looking at it that she fancied herself a fuckin genius for having dreamed up such a poetic declaration.

I also knew some petite little woman who bought a goddam monster truck, of sorts. I mean, it wasn't a monster truck, but it was a big ass ¾ ton Chevy with a hole in the muffler. The contrast between the short little cute chick and her big stupid monster truck was silly enough, but the truck had also come equipped with a sticker that said "LET THE ASS KICKING COMMENCE". That really took the fuckin cake.

Okay. This stupid little thing is pretty much me trying out my new writing program that decided to offer itself to me while I was sitting around and minding my own goddam business. I accepted the program's offer, and now here I am, boring the snot out of anybody who's been unfortunate enough to decide to read this. I guess I could just not post it, but that's no fun. Anyway, whatever.

Oh yeah, and as long as I'm already being pointless, I might as well tell you that if you like fucked up music, check out Made Out Of Babies' newest album called "The Ruiner". Holy shit. I can't stop listening to it. Especially the third song, entitled "Invisible Ink".

Currently listening : The Ruiner By Made Out of Babies Release date: 2008-06-24

6:22 AM - 17 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

An Excerpt

Currently listening : Iron By Ensiferum Release date: 2008-04-22

1:50 PM - 17 Comments - 35 Kudos - Add Comment

Moronitude.
Current mood: coughie

Jeeze.  I haven't written anything in a long time.  The last time I did write anything it was only to acknowledge that a moron existed.  And that's no fuckin newsflash.  As a matter of fact, I can think of so many morons and weirdos right at this very second that it boggles the mind.  Maybe I'll write about one of them!  What a novel idea!  Oh yeah, that's what I did the last time I wrote a blog.  Whatever.  I feel like writing.

So, a couple of weeks ago I cut my thumb on the table saw.  Whoops.  I was doing some tricky shit that nobody should really ever be doing unless they wanna fuck themselves up.  And that's okay, cos I'm not the kinda guy who fucks himself up on the table saw.  Not unless I'm doing it on purpose. 

Half the time I'm running a saw, I wind up thinking "man, what if I stuck my arm in there like that?" and I imagine how totally horrible it would be if I stuck my arm in there like that and it makes me recoil with a shudder.

Sometimes, when I'm riding around in the car, I think about chucking my wallet out the window.  That wouldn't be as fucked up as chopping my hand off with a miter saw, but it still causes me to flinch and grab protectively at my back pocket.

Anyway, I shattered my theory that I'm not the kinda guy who fucks himself up with a table saw.  And I didn't even do it on purpose!  See?  I'm not crazy!  I'm just stupid!  I was just sawing away, doing stuff that I shouldn't be doing but that I'm smart enough to do anyway because I'm being careful.  And while I was doing all that, I was daydreaming about some goddam thing or the other that I really can't remember now.

Feeling the sawblade cutting into my thumbprint broke my concentration.

At that moment, I was able to think very clearly.  THE WORST THING THAT COULD POSSIBLY HAPPEN IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW. 

It wasn't that big of a deal, all things considered.  I mean, I cut the shit outta myself badly enough that I was afraid to look at it, badly enough to freak out a little bit.  But in the end, I put some toilet paper and duct tape on it and went back to work.  And I'm not some kinda badass tough guy.  It really wasn't that big of a deal.

The next day, I was listening to NPR and they were talking about some five year old girl in China who had lost her hand after having been trapped in the wreckage of an earthquake for six hours.  That fuckin sucks. 

All I got was an owee.  And that's alright with me.

And thus concludes my moron story.

Currently listening : Conference of the Birds By Om Release date: 2006-04-25

7:50 PM - 20 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

Check this stupid shit out!
Current mood: I have a fuckin headache

I wrote that regrettable blog last week about somebody wiping their ass on some chick's nightgown and the chick sent me a Myspace message!  The anecdote was boring and lame, it took me about ten minutes to write, and I thought about deleting it after I posted it but decided not to care.  Somehow, the victim in the story got wind of it and got all bent outta shape and told me more of the story that may or may not have happened.  Actually, I'm sure some of it happened, but I really doubt that she remembers who the fuck I am.  I wasn't a bucket back then, and I only met the bitch once or twice.  But, I guess she's pretty fuckin important these days, and now I'm important, too cos she wrote me an angry Myspace message.  I can't write her back cos her settings won't allow me to, so I'll post it here.  It's pretty stupid.
 
"wow, you know it never fails to amuse me what is sometimes written about me. Generally it's press related and industry stuff not about a shit stained night gown. First off my name is "Taissa" not Tayesa and it was a buyer/client of mine on ebay who some how stumbled upon your blog and sent it to me. Priceless darling, simply priceless. It baffles me though that you remember my name and the fact that I was "easy on the eyes". Obviously I must have on some level made one hell of an impression on you since you claim you only met me once. I just find it sad that your messed up past is all you have to write about. That was what, around 18 years ago? And a story about a soiled night gown is all you've got? Jesus, get a hobby dude. And just for the record, you were the one who pulled the fire alarm in my apartment exit which caused me to get evicted from my apartment when I kicked you and your dead beat friends out of my pad. You left the part how I clocked you in the mouth out too. I've got one hell of a damn good memory and I was not drinking that night so it's clear as crystal as to what happened. Thanks for the messages you guys left on my answering machine. There are dozens and man are they good. Glad I saved the machine and tape. Something in the back of my mind in 1991 told me to do so. Nathan used to call me and leave various ones when he was blasted begging me not to move to Chicago and crying in the process. Priceless. Saved those too. Anyway, guess that's it. You losers laughing at me for going into the design industry was the icing on the cake. I moved to Chicago to get my degree and become a clothing designer and a clothing designer I became and here you are eons later writing about my shit stained night gown. Keep up the good work and keep on talking about me, all you are doing is making me more popular. You cannot after all rape the willing,Xoxo. Taissa Lada
Clicky on the link below it will direct you to the real deal.

5:12 PM - 50 Comments - 52 Kudos - Add Comment

The Brown Star of Nathaniel
Current mood: who cares?
Category: who cares? Fashion, Style, Shopping

    I was 19 when I arrived back in Minneapolis after having explored the West Coast.  Five of my friends were living together in a large studio in Southeast Minneapolis in a building called "Podany".  The Podany was a rather unsavory place, and I'm still not too sure what the hell was supposed to have gone on in that dump.  It seemed as if businesses were supposed to operate out of those studios.  But if I ever hired anybody to do anything for me and then I found out that their business was located in the Podany building, I'd fire the motherfuckers.  Unless I was looking to hire someone to get blacked out drunk and piss on my houseplants.  If that's what I wanted, Podany's probably the first door I would've gone knocking on.  By the time I left Minneapolis again two months later, we had totally destroyed that goddam studio.  And I mean "destroyed" in a very serious way.  If we would've had any furniture in that shit hole, it would've been smashed and thrown out the window. 

    When I got into town, I was reunited with my best friend, Nathan, among other folks.  He and I were like Dumb and Dumber, Beavis and Butthead, Ren and Stimpy, Cheech and Chong, or any other fictitious pair of fucked up fools that I'm growing too lazy to name.  Nathan had acquired a girlfriend while I was out of town, a girlfriend whom he seemed to be a bit embarrassed of.  Not because she wasn't pretty, because she was very easy on the eyes.  Nathan was embarrassed of Tyesa because the girl was a fuckin moron.  Well, maybe she wasn't a fuckin moron, but she was stupid enough to fuck Nathan.  Does that make any sense?  For the story's sake, I certainly hope it does.  Nathan wouldn't talk about Tyesa.  But once in a while we'd notice that Nathan had vanished from the party and we'd deduce that he must've gotten horny and decided to make the trek over to Tyesa's house.

     I think the only time that I ever met Tyesa was the night that Nathan wound up breaking up with her.  The whole crew wound up drinking at her apartment.  Nobody was being rude towards her, surprisingly enough.  We were a pretty obnoxious bunch.  I remember going into the bathroom to take a leak and seeing an extravagant nightgown hanging from a hook on the door.  It probably wasn't extravagant.  It was probably just a fuckin nightgown, but I didn't know any chicks with nightgowns, so it looked pretty goddam hoity-toity to me.  Whatever, though.  I stumbled back out to the living room, plopped down onto the couch and continued getting drunk.  Later that evening, Tyesa disappeared into the bathroom.  After a moment, she screamed.  The door flung open and she burst out, screaming, "WHO THE FUCK DID THIS?!!!"  Apparently somebody had wiped his or her ass with the silkish nightgown.  I'm sure it was done innocently enough.  Tyesa was out of toilet paper.  I blacked out shortly afterward and have no idea how I got home, nor do I know whether or not the nightgown incident is what prompted Nathan and Tyesa to break up.  Nor do I care.

Currently listening : Given to the Rising By Neurosis Release date: 05 June, 2007

7:11 PM - 15 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Jughead
Current mood: in a fuckin hurry
Category: in a fuckin hurry Pets and Animals

This is the third and final installment of a story I began a few days ago.  CLICK HERE to read it from the beginning if the spirit moves you to do so.  If not, whatever.

   According to most, there's more than one way to skin a cat.  Well, I sure fuckin hope there is, cos removing Archie's pelt was a pretty sloppy procedure.  I would skin another cat, and I was wasted when I skinned that one, too.  Going by personal experience, I would amend the saying to, "There's more than one way to skin a cat, but you have to be drunk outta your fuckin mind no matter what."

    The first thing I did was to flip Archie over a few times and spin him around once or twice, drawing a blueprint in my pickled brain as to how I was gonna, as the annoying morons whom I completely detest are inclined to say, "get er done".  After studying his corpse for a moment, I decided that I should probably begin by thrusting my knife under his chin and then rip the blade downward towards the ol butthole.  So that's what I did. 

    My theory turned out to be pretty sound when I put it into practice.  Like I said, I'm a fuckin genius.  It probably would've worked a lot better, however, if I hadn't been using a dull pocketknife.  As things were, I had to choke the goddam cat while I sawed through it.  I think I cut myself once or twice in the process, deciding to not give a fuck that I was probably getting dead cat juice in my open wounds.  Once I had cut down to the butthole, the obvious next step was to cut down the insides of the legs, which also proved to be a real pain in the nuts.  I couldn't figure out how to extract the skin from Archie's paws, so I left the fur on them, leaving his body horribly naked except for his socks.  I also decided that peeling his face off was no task for a drunken novice, so I left the fur on his head intact.  What remained to be buried of Archie was a skeleton, encased by blood-smeared muscle and fat.  Archie still wore socks, his eyes were still open, his mouth attempting to meow for the rest of eternity.

    I picked up Archie and made him attack the kid who had been bugging the piss outta me to skin the cat.  He freaked the fuck out and started screaming and backing away from me.  Everybody else was laughing at him, whereupon I turned Archie on them.  The crowd went wild.  Hell, I probably could've robbed a bank with that fuckin cat.  I kept his pelt nailed to a board, treating it with salt.  I eventually donated it to my buddy so that he could sew it onto his coat.  I buried Archie's body in the back yard and made a little marker to put on his grave.  I guess I didn't bury him deep enough.  Later that winter, my new puppy returned from a romp out in the yard with one of Archie's legs in his mouth.  I did a better job burying him the second time around.

8:39 PM - 18 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

Veronica
Current mood: bored

This is the second part of  THIS STUPID STORY.  Read it first or you'll die an unhappy death.

  None of my comrades challenged my sensibilites when I vowed to give Archie a proper burial, even if doing so meant that I'd be walking around town for the next half an hour with a dead cat under my arm.  So I peeled Archie from the sidewalk and we continued on our merry way.  After a couple of blocks, I saw some guys working on the outside of a church.  And guess what?  They had a shovel!  I stumbled up to them, humbly holding Archie in my hands, and I explained the situation.  I asked them if I could borrow their shovel for a few minutes.  I wasn't gonna get all fancy, I just wanted to bury the fuckin cat.  Maybe make a crude sculpture out of rocks and sticks to put on his grave.  I dunno.  Something nicer than the sidewalk or a trashcan, but something that would allow me to go get drunk as soon as possible.  The workers looked at one another and shook their heads, then told me that they weren't authorized to let me use their shovel, but that they'd gladly throw the cat away for me.  Exasperated, I reminded them that throwing Archie in the garbage defeated the whole goddam purpose.  They didn't care.  I blathered at them for a minute, finally telling them to fuck off, and I stormed self-righteously away, cat in hand.

    I'd leave Archie outside of each store that I'd walk into to bust foodstamps, sanely realizing that I'd probably get kicked the fuck out of any respectable establishment if I walked in carrying a dead cat.  We wandered back towards the squat, my mood fluctuating between anger at the guys who wouldn't let me use their shovel, sadness at the condition of a society that doesn't give a fuck about some dead cat, and giddiness because we had finally purchased a bunch of forties of Silver Thunder.  Somewhere along the way, I declared that I would skin Archie.  That should prove to be more interesting than simply burying him.  And I figured that Archie owed me at least that much after I'd been lugging his petrified ass all over town.  The more I talked about doing it, the more determined I became.

    I set Archie down on the stairs outside of my friend's room once I got home.  I figured I'd skin him in a while.  One of the kids who was hanging out with us, I didn't know him very well.  I didn't like him very much either, but who cared?  He had a problem with me cos his girlfriend was hot and he was an idiot, and I was somehow managing to dazzle the shit out of his girlfriend by carrying a dead cat around in my armpit.  His girl's name was Veronica, oddly enough.  I don't know if I ever made the Archie-Veronica connection til just now, though I don't see how that's possible.  Anyway, there were enough other folks to talk to without having to think about the jealous guy too much.  He kept bugging me to skin the cat.  Skin the cat skin the cat skin the cat.  When are you gonna skin the cat?  Fuck.  I finally shouted at him to leave me the fuck alone, that I'd skin the cat right now.  Jesus.  I staggered out into the hall and returned with Archie.  I pulled my knife out of my pocket, sat on the floor, took a swill from my forty, and prepared for surgery.

One more installment and I'll be done with the tale of Archie the Starchy Cat.  I'll even throw in a couple of bonus anecdotes regarding self-taught taxidermy in the last chapter if you'll just leave me alone about it.

Currently listening : Verisäkeet By Moonsorrow Release date: 04 April, 2006

1:49 PM - 22 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Archie
Current mood: whatever
Category: whatever Goals, Plans, Hopes

            We were wandering around West Philly in the early afternoon, each of us buying a Tasty Cake for a quarter with food stamps so that we could get 75 cents back in change.  We visited every corner store in the neighborhood.  The clerks at the stores who didn't like us would look at us like we were scumbags.  And we were scumbags.  One advantage to being a scumbag who's busting foodstamps is that you don't have to give a flying fuck about what some dumbass who works behind the counter at Gus's thinks.  As a matter of fact, you don't even have to be categorized as a scumbag to benefit from that whole philosophy.  Fuck Gus.  As long as he sells me my stupid Tasty Cake and gives me my stupid change, I'm a satisfied customer.  After that, Gus can drink Drano for all I fuckin care.  Whoops.  I started getting all pissed off at the prick who used to work at the bodega up the street from me fifteen years ago and now I forgot what the fuck I came here to discuss.

            Oh yeah.  So we were all busting food stamps at Gus's, among other places.  It was a tedious process that would result in us having enough money to get drunk at two in the afternoon.  We'd also wind up with a whole bunch of Tasty Cakes that don't go very well with malt liquor, but that's not a part of the story.  I don't know if I mentioned that we were all still drunk from the night before when we embarked on this adventure.  Actually, I can easily read what I've already written and determine that I haven't mentioned that detail already.  Well, I have now.  I was drunk, I was in a good mood, and I was on a mission to get drunker, a mission that was doomed to be successful.

            Somewhere along the journey, I encountered a dead black cat.  He wasn't all gross or maggoty or mutilated or anything terrible like that.  He was simply not alive anymore.  It didn't seem right to leave the cat laying on the sidewalk.  Everybody deserves more respect than that.  That said, throwing the dead cat in a trashcan wasn't on the menu.  I decided to bury him.  This presented a problem, as I hadn't had the foresight to carry a fuckin shovel around with me all day long.  Using the ingenuity that I've often been praised for, I picked the dead cat up and continued my day.  Like I said, the cat wasn't all horrible or anything, but rigor mortis had long since set in.  It was like toting a briefcase.  The cat was starchy, so I named him "Archie".  Starchy Archie.  Like I said, I'm a fuckin genius.

        CLICK HERE to read the next chunk of this harrowing tale of misadventure.  

Currently listening : Given to the Rising By Neurosis Release date: 05 June, 2007

11:27 AM - 33 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

I Put the RRRR in Nerd
Current mood: Chili

So, I was gonna bore the piss outta you folks with a stupid little war story about how I kicked some snooty college kid's ass at chess once when I was coming down off of Robitussin, but now I'm not. 

Actually, I stomped that pompous snotball at chess three times in a row before he went home and probably committed suicide. 

What gave me the mundane idea to launch into that forgettably unexciting tale of non-adventure is that I recently got signed up on an online chess thing. 

There's probably a more official name for it than "Online Chess Thing" that I'm unaware of, but I don't care. 

So anyway, now I'm a goddam nerd. 

I was always a goddam nerd, but now I'm a goddam chess nerd.  Or, to be more precise, I'm a chess nerd who just came out of hibernation. 

I have like twenty five chess games going on at the same time.  And it's stupid because I'm about the most impatient person there is, so I'll haul off and make a hasty move that I wouldn't have made if I would've stopped and thought it over for thirty seconds.  And then the other person doesn't show up to take advantage of me til tomorrow. 

So yeah, like most crackheads, I'm extremely impatient. 

My impatience manifests itself in nearly every corner of my life. 

A little while ago I just about smashed the goddam telephone cos I wound up on a voice-activated operator system. 

Again, I doubt if "Voice-Activated Operator System" is what the stupid thing is called, but at least this time I sound like I might know what the fuck I'm talkin about. 

Alas, I don't. 

Anyway, all I wanted to do was to find out what time the post office closes. 

"For location, say 'location' ", the increasingly annoying robot bitch instructed. 

"For postage prices, say, 'postage prices' ". 

This went on for a while, me standing around in my living room feeling like a fool every time I'd say whatever the voice told me to say. 

"If you feel like a dumbass, say, 'I'm a fuckin dumbass' and hang up." 

After a while, I had turned down so many alleys into the menu that I doubted if I'd ever find out what the fuck I wanted to know, and I was about ready to have a heart attack.  

Then the dog barked at something and the robot heard it and transferred me. 

That's when I freaked out. 

I eventually got online and found out that the post office closes at 7 o'clock, but not before Google gave me the fuckin run-around. 

But I was happy that I have until 7 to make it to the stupid post office, so I decided to let Google off the hook. 

This time.

And thus ends the Most Boring Blog Ever To Have Existed. 

It's about fuckin TIME.....

Currently listening : The Eye of Every Storm By Neurosis Release date: 29 June, 2004

2:36 PM - 38 Comments - 48 Kudos - Add Comment

Baloney Sandwich
Current mood: worried
Category: worried Romance and Relationships

Yeah, so anyway, I'm pretty sure that I got an infection from that bologna I've been having sex with.

It's been in my closet for almost two weeks.

I thought it smelled bad cos I've been fuckin it four or five times a day, but now I'm thinking that maybe it's finally on its way out.

It will be dearly missed.

What won't be missed are the gaping, pussey blisters on my ding dong.

But I have to get rid of them before I can get on with the business of not missing them.

Before I spend any money at the clinic, I think I'm gonna try fuckin that moldy loaf of bread that's been sitting on top of the fridge since Thanksgiving.

It'll probably function pretty well as penecillin.

Currently listening : The Beyond By Cult of Luna Release date: 22 April, 2003

12:18 PM - 48 Comments - 36 Kudos - Add Comment

One-Handed Underwear
Current mood: jubilated
Category: jubilated Fashion, Style, Shopping

I walked into a discussion regarding thong underwear the other day. 

By "walking in", I mean that I invaded somebody else's conversation and threw my two cents at them whether they wanted it or not. 

These folks had much more practical insight into the pros and cons of wearing thongs, as one of them has worn one and the other wears them exclusively. 

I wondered out loud why the hell anybody wears those things, since it seems like you'd just be flossing your asshole with every step you took. 

I couldn't see the benefits. 

The person who wears buttfloss told me that you get used to it after awhile, that she doesn't feel right wearing anything else anymore. 

Still, it seems like you'd breathe an audible sigh of relief when it was time to take the goddam thing off. 

I asked her why she didn't just go commando, to which she replied that she likes to wear the same pair of pants for a few days in a row. 

That makes sense, I guess.  You don't want skid marks in your jeans. 

That's why I always wear black. 

Anyway, all this made me wish that I had been having this useless discussion a couple of months ago, for then I would've had the opportunity to get my new get-rich-quick scheme off the ground in time for Christmas. 

At first I was thinking I could call my new invention "butthole tape", but after some reflection I decided that "invisible underwear" has a more marketable ring to it. 

What it is is this: 

A piece of tape with which you cover your anus with so that nobody can see your anus when you're pantsless. 

That seems to be the only feature required to technically qualify an article of clothing as "underwear". 

Invisible underwear's in the early stages of its development, but it shouldn't take too much longer before it hits the shelves. 

I tried putting one of those bandaids that's supposed to go on your knuckles on my butthole and it worked pretty well, though you could still see the corona peeking out from around the edges. 

I think I just need a bigger bandaid, that's all. 

Hey, that could be one style of invisble underwear! 

"Anal Eclipse!" 

Sounds exotic, huh? 

"New, from Calvin Klein...  Brown Star Eclipse" 

Man, this is the best fuckin idea I've ever had in my entire life!

I'm still working on what to do with all your other junk that underwear's supposed to cover up. 

So far, using my left hand to hide my package seems to work pretty good. 

I'll have to iron out the bugs and get this new line of fashion into Macy's lingerie department before Mother's Day.

Currently listening : The Eye of Every Storm By Neurosis Release date: 29 June, 2004

7:30 AM - 28 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Dingleberry on the Mistletoe

    Well, we got rid of a dingleberry at work.  Not a dingleberry as in a poopy pebble that's reluctant to leave one's anal area.  My place of employment doesn't specialize in cling-on removal.  That's a job for Captain Kirk.  I work at a restaurant, so the dingleberry that we got rid of was of the variety that doesn't do a goddam thing.  There are other varieties, I suppose, one of which I described a few months ago.  Only that guy was a douchebag.  This guy's a dingleberry.  There's a world of difference.  The douchebag was a big, fat, lazy loudmouth with the I.Q. of a broken lawn chair.  He just disappeared one day and we all clapped and congratulated one another.  Actually, the dingleberry kinda just vanished, too, and he received a similar farewell party.

    His name was Dartanian.  Yep.  You read that correctly.  DARTANIAN!  Holy shit!  Apparently, Dartanian was the name of one of the Three Musketeers.  As uneducated as I feel for not knowing a goddam thing about the Three Musketeers, the simple fact is that I don't know a goddam thing about the Three Musketeers.  Don't fuck with me about it.  I have enough trouble falling asleep at night as it is.  The guy goes by "Dart".  "Dart Washington".  Now that sounds like a fuckin porn star name if I ever heard one.  And Dartanian could conceivably get into the porn business.  He'd be the guy who would never actually get laid in real life who's screwing all kinds of chicks so that all the guys who could never actually get laid in real life can watch the movie and think to themselves, "If this dingleberry can do it, it could probably happen to ME!"

    Anyway, Dartanian was about the slowest, laziest motherfucker I've ever had the displeasure of working with.  He had a habit of ruining my day just by showing up.  For one thing, I don't think he ever said "hi" to me the whole time I've known him.  I'd say "what's up" or "yo" or "hey, man" or some other stupid version of "hello" to the guy and he'd just competely ignore me.  Fucker.  I don't know if any of you folks remember the story of Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby, but that's exactly why Brer Rabbit tried to beat the shit outta the tar baby:  Brer Rabbit said, "Howdy" and, of course, the tar baby didn't respond.  But the tar baby was a fuckin dummy made out of tar.  Of course it didn't say "howdy" to Brer Rabbit.  Dartanian, however, is a fuckin dummy who's made out of meat and bones and eyeballs and fingernails and DNA and all that other happy shit that we're all made out of.  The fuckin guy should say "hi".  Hell, he didn't even say "bye".  That's okay, though.  At least he's gone.

    Jeeze.  I'm sure talkin some serious shit here.  Oh well.  If it feels good, do it.  Dartanian sounds like an adjective for somebody who hails from The Land of Dartania.  Originally, that's what I thought until I found out that he was named after a Musketeer.  After that, his name had more of a Dungeons and Dragons ring to it:  Dartanian the Slothful or Dartanian the Useless or something cool like that.  Man, I remember that putz showed up and basically spun around in circles for fifteen minutes in an attempt to look like he was doing something.  Fifteen fuckin minutes!  And there was actually shit that needed to get done!  He'd rather try hard to look busy than to just go ahead and be busy, and then let me get everything done while he does nothing slower than anybody has ever done nothing before.  And the fucked up thing is, is that once you're done with everything, you can stand around and listen to the radio and be a useless jerkoff without anybody yelling at you to find something to do.  And if they do yell at you, they can kiss your ass cos you already got everything done.  Does that make any sense?  I don't fuckin know.  I just work there.  But Dartanian, Doer Of Nothing, doesn't anymore.  And that makes for a Merry Fuckin Christmas! 

Currently listening : Nord By Year of No Light Release date: 22 May, 2007

11:53 AM - 11 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Father Knows Best
Current mood: illiterate

            On the days when my dad had managed to park his rusty old van down the block from my grandma's house before he passed out in it, I'd pound on the side of it and ask him for a ride, rather than take the school bus.  I did this for two reasons:  I'd rather get a ride to school than take the goddam bus, and my dad would always get me good and stoned on the way there.  He'd also usually send me on my way with enough weed for a couple of joints.  Anyway, if the doors were locked I'd knock and holler at him until he got up and let me in.  Usually though, I'd just sit in the passenger seat and start shaking him.  He'd spring to a sitting position to reveal a severe case of bedhead and a face that hadn't seen a razor in three days.  He'd look past me in confusion with bloodshot eyes that had dark circles beneath them and mumble," Whaddafuck?" 

            "Can I get a ride to school?"

            "Huh?", he'd say, meaning "yes".

            I'd light up a cigarette and look out the windshield at the morning traffic on Snelling Avenue while the old man crawled out from under his blanket to kneel by the doorwell and piss in an empty beer bottle.  By now, he had gathered enough of his senses to inform me that his bag of weed was in his left shoe, to suggest that I roll a joint.  A lot of times, I was already one step ahead of him.

            It usually took at least three beer bottles to hold the contents of my dad's bladder.  Once he was finished with that phase of the project, it was time to open the side door and empty the piss bottles out into the street.  Mission accomplished.

            He'd then fish an unopened beer out of the haystack of empties and climb into the driver's seat.  We always took the scenic route to school.  That way, we could drive slowly and properly smoke the joint that I had rolled up.  Another advantage to traveling side streets was that the van was unregistered and uninsured and my dad had gotten his license revoked for driving drunk.  The odds were slimmer of getting pulled over in a residential neighborhood.

            We'd be totally baked by the time we'd pull up across the street from my high school, where we'd smoke cigarettes and watch all the kids walking in to receive an education.  My dad and I would still be sitting in the Dodge, wrapped up in some kind of pointless stoner conversation when the tardy bell would finally ring, each of us noticing that there were no longer any kids outside of the building.  Oops.  Fuck it.  Might as well smoke one more cigarette.

            I'd walk into the office, stoned outta my fuckin mind, and hand a note to the old lady at the desk who looked exactly like Grandpa Munster's twin sister.  The note read:

"Kevin is late for school.
                                                -His Dad"

Currently listening : Given to the Rising By Neurosis Release date: 05 June, 2007

11:09 PM - 21 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

In Case You Missed Your Flu Shot
Current mood: Crappy

Man, do I feel lousy.  I contracted some kind of nightmare that I keep crossing my fingers in hopes that it isn't pneumonia. 

I've had pneumonia before, and this is pretty similar, but I'm reluctant to go to a doctor simply cos I can't afford to if it isn't absolutely necessary. 

I try not to think about how bullshit that is cos it only pisses me off, and I'm already in pain and having trouble breathing. 

Getting all pissed off won't help anything. 

But the idea that alot of folks in the wealthiest nation in the world'll just carry on with business until it's time to dial 911 cos they can't afford to take a few days off work or to go to a doctor is fuckin obscene.

I've cut down drastically on cigarettes.  Don't tell me that I oughtta quit, cos I fuckin know that I oughtta fuckin quit, O.K.? 

Get off my ass, Mom.

A friend told me that she switches to menthols whenever she gets sick.  I asked her if that's so she won't smoke as much just cos her cigarettes suck, but she said no.  She said that it feels kinda like smoking Vapo-Rub.

Reminds me of my Grandma's old remedy that she'd administer to me and my sister when we were little.

She'd shoot us up with chicken soup, freebase some boullion cubes, and dip all our cigarettes in Vapo-Rub.

Man, I was gonna tell some stupid story about the time when my girlfriend got our big, fucked-up school bus stuck in the mud, at which point I nearly lost my fuckin mind.  Now I don't feel like it anymore.  Maybe I'll do that later.  I guess I just got a little burst of energy and figured I'd let anybody who clicks on my stupid blog know that I'm alive and unwell. 

I miss blogging sometimes, maybe I'll try to get back into it this winter.  Sayonara-

The Bucket

Currently listening : Winter’s Knight By Nox Arcana Release date: 25 July, 2005

2:36 PM - 45 Comments - 52 Kudos - Add Comment

Cold Feet
Current mood: Cold Feet
Category: Cold Feet Life

Oh yeah.  I forgot about writing blogs.  This one's pretty important, though, now that cold weather is approaching.  I have a couple of useful suggestions for those of you who have a tendency to suffer from cold feet.  Not cold feet like you're not sure if you should get married or rob a bank, smartass.  Cold feet like your fuckin toes are numb to every other sensation other than pain.  That kinda cold feet.  Anyway, I know a couple of helpful hints on the subject, and I'm here to lay them on you, free of charge.

HINT 1
Sprinkle a bit of cayenne pepper in your socks.  I'm not precisely certain why this works and you're completely outta your fuckin mind if you think I'm gonna go find out.  But it does work.  I've done it and I know.  Rub some of that shit in between your toes and your complaints of cold feet will be things of the past.

HINT 2
Never ever ever ever fuckin NEVER sprinkle cayenne pepper in your socks.  I was hanging out in Austin some years back, getting drunk every night and sleeping with a bunch of other fools underneath a bridge that spanned a little creek.  It was a pretty pleasant place to camp, all things considered.  We could sit in the soft sand, get wasted and blather whatever kinda drunken nonsense at each other that we wanted without attracting the police, and eventually pass out in the dirt.  I think we even had a small fire down there once in awhile.  But it was wintertime.  Winters in Austin, Texas are usually pretty mild, but it's hard to properly thaw out if you're constantly outside.  And, like I said, I was living under a fuckin bridge.

    At some point during my luxurious stay in the dirt, this kid named Rory hung out with us down there for a few days.  He didn't drink very much, so he didn't last very long.  But during the short time that he spent living down by the creek, he read in some hippy book that you can keep your feet warm by putting cayenne pepper in your socks.  Hm.  Sounded like it might work.  And after all, some book that some stupid hippy wrote that some dumbass who was living under a bridge was reading said it worked, and you can't really fuck with that.  That's a pretty reliable source of information, I think.  So, Rory bought some organic cayenne pepper at the local HippyMart and busted out with it one morning before we were to set out for the day.  I was the only person in the crew (besides Rory) who was adventurous enough to give it a whirl.  At first, nothing happened.

    After walking for a few blocks, my feet warmed up nicely.  It felt as if I were toasting them in front of a cozy wood-burning stove on a snowy afternoon.  About a block later, I would've moved my feet away from the stove if there'd been a stove.  But there wasn't.  There was just me and my feet.  Another couple of minutes later and I had to stop and take my fuckin shoes off.  My feet were on fire.  Taking my shoes off only helped a little bit.  I spied a puddle and dipped my feet in it.  The temperature was in the mid-thirties, mind you.  The filthy ice water felt great.  I decided to ditch my socks and come up with a new pair later.  It didn't matter.  My shoes were contaminated.  For the next three or four days, my feet would go from being cold to nice and toasty to so fuckin hot that I'd have to stop and take off my shoes wherever I happened to be at the time.  I've thought that it might work better if you mix the pepper in with some talcum powder or something, but I don't know what the dosage is.  And I don't care.

HINT 3

    If your feet are cold, too fuckin bad.  Deal with it.
   

Currently listening : Rise of the Serpent Men By Axegrinder Release date: 19 September, 2006

1:36 PM - 51 Comments - 40 Kudos - Add Comment