Read This

Yeah, that's right – read this goddamn blog. It's the best blog in the history of everything and you should be honored to read it. Print it out and wallpaper your home and/or office with this wonderfully crafted piece of art. Put this blog on T-Shirts and tattoo it on your children. Ladies, fashion this blog into a pleasure device to use when I am too busy to have sex with you. Men, lament at the fact that you are inferior to my manliness. Take this blog and load it into a bong. Get high from this blog. Do it. Do it right now, I say! Take this blog and replace your church's bibles with it. Worship this blog. Drink this blog mixed with apple cider on a crisp winter morn. Take this blog to the top of Mt. Everest and the bottom of the Mariana Trench. To the ends of the Earth, this blog should go! Empty your bank accounts and burn your money. Use this blog as currency. Buy and sell your partner's parents with this blog. Use this blog as a prophylactic. Neil Armstrong, take this blog to the moon. Write movies, essays, and odes to this blog. Ask this blog to marry you. Have children with this blog. Enjoy 4,000 sunsets with this blog. Tell this blog how you get lost in its eyes. Use this blog to get out of traffic tickets. Have this blog represent you in a murder trial. This blog should guest star in a CSI. This blog is your next American Idol that Dances with the Stars and is the One that You Want. This blog will never take the "deal." Vote this blog for president. Send this blog eighteen dozen tulips. Rename a state after this blog. Use this blog as your operating system. Leave your spouse and children to only be spurned by this blog. Send tithes to this blog. Do not anger the blog. Use this blog as a floatation device. Tell this blog its shoes match its eyes. Kneel before this blog. Cower in fear over the sheer ferocity of this blog. Use this blog to pick your teeth. Take this blog to your Senior Prom. Nominate this blog for a Nobel Prize. Write your congressman about this blog. Go to Pueblo, Colorado for this blog. Write this blog a 45 minute song. Destroy a Fiat in the name of this blog. Use this blog to cure any ailment. Water the blog when I am out of town. Go on a romantic stroll with the blog. Thank you.

Tommy Tutone Never had to Deal with This

I was married when text messaging was invented and never really learned the etiquette. I personally just started using it last year and am slow as hell. One thing that threw me though was the role text messaging plays in dating. For example, I went out with a girl probably around ten times and the only time we made plans by telephone was the first time I called her. All plans afterward were made via texts. On one hand, it is a good thing since I write much better than I talk. I usually say stupid shit and immediately regret it, but if I am texting, I can delete the faux pas and no one is the wiser that I'm a dumb fuck. On the other hand, if you have psychotically low self-esteem such as I, texting is bad news.

First off, I feel like I shouldn't call the girl; I should only text her. That means, the task of asking her out stretches a two minute phone conversation into a three hour text-off. Here is an example:

Me: What do you want to do?

Sent at 7:45pm

Her: I don't care. Up to you.

Received at 7:49pm

Me: Well, are you hungry?

Sent at 7:52pm

Her: Yeah, I could eat.

Received at 7:59pm

Me: What are you in the mood for?

Sent at 8:02pm

Her: I don't care. Whatever.

Received at 8:17pm

Me: How about Mexican?

Sent at 8:20pm

Her: No, had that for lunch. Anything else is ok.

Received at 8:42pm

Me: How about Theo's?

Sent at 8:45pm

Her: Sorry, going there tomorrow.

Received at 9:12pm

Me: I went to Wendy's.

Sent at 9:15pm

Her: That's cool. getting late anyway. let's do something later this week. :)

Received at 10:35pm

Me: Sounds good.

Sent at 10:38pm

That leads me into my main problem with texting and dating. I'm a pretty cool headed guy and it takes a lot to get me truly angry. However, the one thing that pisses me off more than anything is a non-reply. I mean, it takes like two seconds to reply. From there, I start to wonder, "Maybe the text didn't go through," or, "What did I do wrong now?" and stew on it until I'm good and sauced and start sending out dickhead texts about how I really can't believe how I'm not worth two seconds of someone's precious time. Which results in them never talking or texting me ever again.

Teenage Wasteland

Aragorn_13: dood! wutz up? havent seen u online in a while!!11!

Darth_George: i knows dood!! my dam mom grounded me from teh internets. >:(

Aragorn_13: o dood, that sux ass hairs!!! :oO whudjado?

Darth_George: i totally jacked her credit card and went to the Star Trek auction.

Aragorn_13: fuggggggggin A, dood!1 that's some str8 hax0r shit right dere!!!2

Darth_George: yeah, i dont gives a dam about nuthin. i do what i do and thats all i do.

Aragorn_13: hells yeah dood! u r teh king of rebels. didja get anythang cool?

Darth_George: i got Picard's codpiece from STNG episode 108-976B!

Aragorn_13: OOOOO! that is some killer shit! how mcuh it set yo' mamma back?

Darth_George: well dood, since i am such a savvvvvy auctionteur, it only costed $12,000.

Aragorn_13: wow, u r teh auction master. u should own ebayz and shit.

Darth_George: i totally know dood. still my dumb bitch mom got all YOUR BASE ARE BELONG TO US and shit.

Aragorn_13: LMFAOGDIOAIUDMAERIAPKSDJFP! classic meme.

Darth_George: i wuz like MOM, I PAY FOR STUFF AROUND HERE. I GOTS A JOB AND SHIT.

Aragorn_13: yeah boi! tell dat ho-bag.

Darth_George: Jeff, that's my mom.

Aragorn_13: sorry. go ahead.

Darth_George: newaz, she was like SCREW YOUR HARD WORK DOWN AT THE FROSTY FREEZE! I ONLY CARE ABOUT MY BITCH ASS TIVO SHOWS. AND QUIT RECORDING ALL THAT SCIFI & CARTOON GARBAGE!

Aragorn_13: aw, harsh dood.

Darth_George: i knows dood! i was like, HEY, WAIT A GD MINUTE MOM. THAT'S SOME BULLSHIT. I DO WHAT I DO AND YOU KNOWS THAT SHIT!

Aragorn_13: fuggin beastie boyz dood.

Darth_George: i knows. but she was raggin or some shit and went to the den and took the cable modem adn locked it away.

Aragorn_13: oh noes!!! she didn't do that.

Darth_George: srlsly

Aragorn_13: o rly?

Darth_George: srlsly

Aragorn_13: o rly?

Darth_George: srlsly

Aragorn_13: o rly?

Darth_George: srlsly

Aragorn_13: well, at least ur back on.

Darth_George: yeah, so wuts new wit u?

Aragorn_13: aw dood. im in some serious trouble.

Darth_George: o rly?

Aragorn_13: srlsly. i was doing what i do when im alone on sat.

Darth_George: yah? that thing?

Aragorn_13: yah. newaz, i get a nice young hunney all ready to go. hot and horny, ya knows?

Darth_George: oh yah. so wut's the trubble?

Aragorn_13: well, she invites me over to party. asks me to brings some beers and condoms and shit.

Darth_George: hells yeah. hooooooooobag city and yur tha mayor.

Aragorn_13: i wish. no i get to her house, her parents r out of town. i walk in and she sayz shes in the shower and to make myself at home.

Darth_George: nice...

Aragorn_13: well, i takes off my clothes and shit and start eating some cookies on the table.

Darth_George: mmm, i likes cookies.

Aragorn_13: me too. so i'm chewin on some cookies, playin with my junk and all the sudden, goddam Chris Hansen walks out with cameras and shit. >:(

Darth_George: OH NOES!!111eleventyone!!11

Aragorn_13: srsly!!!

Darth_George: u on the TV?

Aragorn_13: yup, next tues on Dateline. me and my junk gettin tackled by some goddam camo-cop.

Darth_George: oh noes! wut'd ur wife do?

Aragorn_13: hell dood, she took the kids and moved the fug out. she was all like I WILL NOT BE MARRIED TO A GD PEDOFILE!

Darth_George: wut a biznatch!

Aragorn_13: George, that's my wife.

Darth_George: sorry dood. so will you be able to make it to our class reunion. 25 years dood.

Aragorn_13: probably not. trial is next month, so wish me luck.

Darth_George: good luck dood. try not to get butt raped.

Aragorn_13: will do.

Synapse

I was trying to explain to MJ how a man's mind works and why we do some of the stupid shit we do. In all honesty, the only time most of us think clearly is for five minutes after we have sex. It is kinda hard to explain, so I made a visual aid of my thought process below:

me-me-me-me-sex-me-me-me-me-sex-me-me-chapstick-me-sex-me-me-comics-sex-me-me-drugs-me-me-sex-friends-me-sex with friends?-get them drunker-me-me-need a drink?-me-me-me-dry hands-lotion-sex-masturbate?-yes-me-me-me-sex-email-me-work-procrastinate-me-me-sex-chapstick-sex with chapstick?-yes-me-me-money-sex-pay for sex?-yes-me-me-me-me-there's a nice one-sex-me-me-condom?-no-disease?-curable-pregnancy?-also curable-me-me-itchy-me-that's the spot-me-oh yeah!-dreams-spirituality-ambitions-community-responsibilities-shoulda used a condom-smoke?-yes-me-me-me-me-me-me-sex-sleep-cuddle-sex-sex-sex dreams-goats...

Things I Learned from a Racist Six Year Old Girl on the Bus

*Cardboard boxes are the most multifaceted thing in the universe.
*Your grandmother will die if you don't eat your cauliflower.
*The Internet is full of nice men who like to play with children.
*The witch that lived at the end of my darkened hallway was indeed real.
*Writing in cursive is stupid and for queers.
*Shows like Dora and Blue's Clues insult and retard intelligence.
*Van Halen was better during the Sammy Hagar years.
*The President is a great big dummy head.
*The Tooth Fairy smells like whiskey.
*Eating Play-Doh covers all food groups, including the oft forgotten Pet Dander Group.
*Sticking a paper clip in an electrical outlet is a great way to score free candy.
*While the US/Mexico border wall is a good start, we need to have flying sharks patrol it.
*Babies are made when Mommy is really drunk.
*Sally Miller is a lying little bitch.
*DVD players in automobiles have ensured the lowering of America's IQ.
*Freemasons are super cool.
*There's a rumor that years ago, there were cartoons on Saturday mornings.
*If it could be either a scoop of butter or a scoop of ice cream, it's probably butter.
*Three words: Goober Grape Awesome
*Adults are stupid because they care so much when a golddigging porn star OD's.
*...and then the White guy says, "I'll just have a Coke."
*Dr. Phil got his PhD with 4 proofs of purchase from Fruit Loops boxes.
*Mommy's magic wand smells like the dumpster behind Benihana.
*So does the shower head.
*Learning Spanish is a waste of time. We'll all be speaking Chinese very soon.
*Daddy says a restraining order is Mommy's way of saying, "I love you."
*I look a little too "Jewey" for her tastes.
*I also have stinky breath.

Vision Quest

Last night, while I was cleaning the bathtub with bleach and a SOS pad, I started to see the toxic fumes materialize. If I looked through the fumes, I could make out some kind of scene taking place. Then, all of the sudden, I was falling into the mist towards the alternate realm. I landed in the middle of some restaurant with a thud and my head was throbbing. However, no one seemed to notice me fall out of thin air.

I looked around and the place seemed very familiar. To my right, there was a child's birthday party going on and I was drawn to the gathering. I saw my father and stepmother, along with friends from junior high school. Then, I saw myself. It finally dawned on my fuzzy brain that I was witnessing my 13th birthday party at a pizza place called Mr. Gatti's. I was in shock and wondered if I had finally poisoned myself with my ridiculous attempts at cleaning. If so, why was I reliving this particular memory. I couldn't remember why, but always had a feeling that my 13th birthday sucked.

Seeing my friends and family 16 years younger was a trip. I looked like an idiot, of course. I was sporting a Vuarnet t-shirt and some bright orange and blue Umbro shorts. Which at the time, I thought that was my coolest outfit ever - especially with my Reebok Pump sneakers. What a douche, but it was 1990 for crissakes. Anyway, my younger self was nervously talking to a cute girl that I remember meeting at my Stepmom's basketball camp. I think her name was Kim or something like that. Just hearing my own pre-pubescent voice was enough to make me want to kill myself, but then I remembered that I was dead and probably in Hell for writing that Hitler and Juice thing.

Even though she was a foot taller than me, it seemed like this chick was into me. Why didn't I remember this? Then I heard her whisper to me, "After the party, let's go to my house and we can kiss and stuff." What?! This can't be right. I never made out with this girl, because I hadn't made out with any girls yet and would remember the first time. Something was amiss with this memory. Then, the front door violently flew open and over the wall, I could see a shitload of balloons and hear a crazy commotion.

My heart started pounding and my face probably shared the same look of horror as my younger counterpart. The reason my 13th birthday sucked was starting to become clearer. Around the corner, he appeared. The goddamn man in the monkey suit. He was holding the balloons in one hand and a can of Silly String in the other. He shrieked, "Where's the birthday boy?!" and my evil father laughed and pointed my way. The son of a bitch monkey jumped up on the long table and started running towards my teen self. I suddenly thought that maybe this was like Quantum Leap and I was there "to set right what once went wrong."

I jumped up on the table and lunged at the monkey; but instead of taking him down, I passed right through him. There wasn't anything I could do. My younger self was on his own. I laid there on the table wondering why I could lay on a table, but not affect anything else in this world. Somebody said, "plot hole," and I decided to focus on the matter at hand.

The monkey had made it and stood above my younger self, who was frozen with fear and embarrassment. The monkey shook the can of Silly String and then dumped the contents into young Turk's eyes. He screamed and stumbled backwards out of his chair and the monkey pounced on him. Everyone was laughing and no one was doing a damn thing to stop this monkey rape.

I screamed, "Oh noes, young Turk. Fight him off! Somebody fucking help this kid!" Alas, nobody heard my pleas and nobody cared about young Turk's cries for help. Finally, he was able to evasively roll away from the monkey and scrambled up onto the table to make a daring escape. I cheered for my younger, very agile self. Then, I froze. The monkey was back on his feet before young Turk could jump off the other side. "Look out, he's right behind you," I futilely yelled. But it was too late, the monkey was on him and then the repressed memory played out to me in Technicolor. The monkey grabbed young Turk's flimsy bright orange and blue Umbro shorts and pants him. And, only God knows why, I wasn't wearing any underwear that day.

Young Turk and I screamed in harmony while he stood there on the table, naked from the waist down. His eight year old's penis and nuts the size of an acorn on display for all the world to see. The worst was cute little Kim whispering and giggling with her friends at my diminutive manhood. Oh the horror, the goddamned horror! The embarrassing memory was flooding my brain and I started to feel woozy again. As I was fading out, I saw the monkey take off his mask and caught a quick glimpse of my tormentor. She shall pay for her misdeeds one day.

I woke from my haze in my bathtub, amid a pool of blood and bleach. I must've passed out from the fumes and cracked my head pretty good. However, for some reason, I was naked from the waist down.

Miserable Bastard

I'm a miserable bastard. If there's one thing you should know about me, that's it. Just miserable. Now, I'm sure I haven't cornered the market on making dumbass decisions, but I gotta be on the board of directors. Mostly having to do with women. Man, I hate goddamn women. Show me a more heartless animal than a woman, and I'll give you million dollars. My theory is that society associates caring and compassion with women because of our mothers. They nurture us and love us, so we think all women are like that. All you gotta do is ask your father how batshit crazy your mother drove him and you'll learn that she's no different.

Yeah, I was married. Probably the worst thing I could've done. She rectified that situation a few years ago - after all the money was gone. There was a bitch among bitches right there. The worst part is that if she showed up on my doorstep right now, I'd probably take her back. That's how damn dumb I am. If I'm gonna be honest, the one I'm seeing now is way worse. Comparing her to my ex-wife is like comparing a nuclear bomb to a fire cracker. Yeah, this new one is that bad. At least the ex was sweet on a blue moon. Not this one though, she's probably never been sweet for a minute in her life. See, told you I was a dumbass.

Her name's Esmeralda. Sounds exotic, but she's about as exotic as a stalk of corn. More hunchback than damsel too. Don't get me wrong, she's a beautiful girl - on the outside. Damn jackal on the inside. I met her at a bar. That should've been my first clue, but she caught my eye and charmed my pecker. Like a goddamn fish going after a shiny new lure, I was hooked. Sex was great; for the first couple months. Lately, I'm lucky if I get a one armed hug. My daddy always said, "God created porn for the married man." I think he would've enjoyed the Internet, God rest his soul, the poor bastard.

Back to the love of my life. She wasn't that into me after that first night and the liquor wore off. She allowed me to buy her a couple of meals because she's such a damn saint. Nope, wasn't until she saw where I lived, that she feigned some interest. Not saying that I have a nice, big house or anything. No, the reason she liked it is because it is only five minutes from where she works. So shacking up with me was more convenient for her and she could sleep in an extra 30 minutes. I guess women choose men like they choose real estate; it's the location that's most important.

Women are smart when it comes to claiming territory. They're subtle. Starts out with a few toiletries, then a few items of clothing in the closet. After that, comes a knickknack here and there. Next thing I knew, all my shit was crammed into the extra bedroom and my clothes were moved from the closet to the garage. Now I got fruity looking pictures of Paris and London hanging up and candles everywhere. I can't sit down without getting a damn candle up my ass. Can't light them though; or for that matter, actually use a hand towel. No, to hear her tell it, the fucking world would cease to be. Well, I guess Esmeralda isn't all bad. No, actually, she is.

I also was given some new rules for my house. First off, I couldn't smoke cigarettes inside anymore. Can't even smoke in the damn garage and gotta freeze my ass off. On the other hand, her and her stupid friends can smoke weed in the house. Shit, Esmeralda would smoke weed in a hospital nursery. She'd probably crawl into my Great Aunt Ester's iron lung if she thought it'd get her more stoned. Man, I hate goddamn potheads. Now, I'm no Mother Theresa. I like the drink and maybe a line of coke every now and again, but these potheads think they're so damn smart and enlightened. Yeah, I bet Voltaire had his nasty finger in the bottom of a jar of Skippy while holding court. I've heard more coherent thought coming out of a drunk four year old. Don't say that to a stoner though. They'll verbally rape you - until you show them something shiny or colorful.

What I don't understand is why Esmeralda hangs out with the people she calls, "friends." She doesn't like a damn one of them. If they're not around, all she does is tell me, or whoever will pretend to listen, how her friends are stupid. They're with the wrong guy, work the wrong job, dress like crap, think they can dance, etc. That's the thing about women; they really hate their friends most of the time. My theory is that they settle for whatever they can get, whether it be their friends, the man they’re with, or their job. Women settle, because something's better than nothing. No matter how awful that something is. You can call me a hypocrite and say that I settle for any woman that'll let me see her naked; but I don't have a choice. Men don't have a choice in anything anymore.

I always thought I was as miserable as I could get, until I met Esmeralda's father. He has four daughters, no sons, and a ballbuster of a wife. All in a house with only one bathroom. What a poor bastard. You can tell his spirit was broken in the early eighties. He just kinda sits there in his JC Penny's suit until one of the women gives him an order. I saw some pictures of him from his Army days and I tell you, the young sergeant and that sad sack sitting in the living room can't be the same guy. Guess I have that to look forward to. Fortunately, I'm already 30 and haven't had any kids yet. Unfortunately, Esmeralda is only 24 and has many child rearing years left. I should take her father and drive us both off a cliff.

I thought that since she was much younger than me, I could have at least a little control in the relationship. Nope, it's like I'm dating the Prom Queen again and she's calling all the shots. Dumb shots that I called when I was her age, but according to her, I'm retarded. I wish I was, then I wouldn't know any better. One of the mistakes she is making, that I made at her age, is that she thinks that success in her career will equal success in her life. I thought that until I was successful in my career. Hell, I was never more miserable. The more money you make, the worse off you are. She doesn't get that and tells me that I'm just a lazy son of a bitch who wants to mooch off her.

Now, I do have a job. It pays me what I need to get by, but more importantly, it doesn't interfere with my life. I don't have any job related stress. That's a lie. I have to "sympathize" with Esmeralda's job related stress. I have the honor of listening about how her job doesn't value her and doesn't even know how great she is. I get to hear this same damn speech every day for an hour after she gets home. I tell her to quit and do something she enjoys, but she tells me I'm a lazy retarded son of a bitch with no ambition and I should be more like her father. Yeah, that poor asshole is a great role model for happiness.

I remember back in fifth grade, they took all the girls over to the auditorium. They threw all the boys in the gym and said we could punch each other and not get in trouble. No wonder we’re all idiots. What the girls were taught in that special session is the biggest secret in the world. Out of all the women I’ve ever met, none will tell what went on in there. And we all know how women can’t keep a damn secret. That’s why you can’t cheat on them. Anyway, most men speculate it was all about periods and growing hair in weird places. I wholeheartedly disagree.

I believe that fifth grade girls across the country are given an intense psychological warfare seminar. They learn the fine arts of sexual manipulation and crying at will. God forbid, if I have a daughter, I’m gonna home school her during fifth grade and see if she turns out sweet. By the way, in sixth grade, they took the boys to the auditorium. They taught us about wet dreams and answered the myths about girls masturbating with coke bottles and hot dogs.

I wasn’t always such a miserable bastard. I mean, I’ve always been kinda miserable, but not to the extent I am today. No, like any young man, I used to be full of hope. After my high school girlfriend wiped her ass with my heart, I actually bounced back pretty quickly. Mostly because girls in college would fuck just about anything and I was drunk a majority of the time. Those were the days.

The bad thing is that I fell in love after my first year in college. Not to say that falling in love is a bad thing. Love is pretty awesome if you find it with the right person. Or so I’ve heard; I never have. No, I can only fall in love with the worst person. And that’s not so great. She was an alright gal, she was just an evil bitch. Can’t blame her, some asshole guy turned her that way. She got her revenge on him by being an asshole to me and the cycle of awful adult relationships began.

The most absurd part of it all is that even as a younger man, I could see this. However, whenever I’d get fed up with her and decide to leave, that’s the day she’d be the sweetest damn thing in the world and I’d fall even more in love with the two-faced succubus. It’s like women can sense when a man has had enough and they change into the girl of our dreams for up to 72 hours. That keeps us hooked in for at least another six months hoping that girl will come back.

Yeah, the woman decides when the relationship is over, not the man. Shit, I broke up with my ex-wife after the first month of dating and two months later we were living together. How the hell do they do that? Must be some of that crap they learn in fifth grade.

Anyway, after my first adult love decided that she could settle for something a little bit better looking, she ripped out my heart like a Mayan priest. I was a little bitter and played it safer than before, but still had hope. I still thought there was a nice girl out there for me. Yeah, I was still naïve.

The next one was a little better than the first, but again she was turned malicious by a previous asshole. That’s when I began to learn my place in the world. Since I was a decent man, I was the vacation guy for girls who were in between assholes. They left an asshole, went with me for awhile, and then dumped me for an even bigger asshole. Ironically, each time they do this, they turned me more and more into an asshole. That’s a lot of assholes, which makes me wonder: Which came first, the bitch or the asshole. If you believe the bible, it was the bitch; or you could argue that the snake was the asshole. Personally, I think a rule that you can have anything in the world except this one thing is kind of an asshole rule. But that’d make me a blasphemer.

When I met my ex-wife, I was a pretty miserable bastard. But I still had a little hope left in the old tank. All she had been with were really terrible assholes, so she stuck with me for longer than most. She also liked the fact that I made a shitload of dough. So much so, that when she’d spent it all and I decided that money wasn’t important to me, she left me for a rich asshole. Not hard to find; all rich guys are assholes.

And that’s how I became such a miserable bastard and fell into the unloving arms of my beautiful Esmeralda, Queen of the Callous, the fingernails running down the chalkboard of my heart. Hopefully, she’ll decide she can settle for someone better soon and leave me. Until that day, I’ll have to get used to smoking outside and sitting down to take a piss. Damn, I should really drive myself off a cliff.

Young Hitler Visits the Supermarket

Dearest Mother,

I was unfortunate to come across the scourge of the supermarket during my last visit to procure nourishment. I am officially declaring that I hate Juice. Juice really left a very bad taste in my mouth. Juice resorted to trickery. Juice promised you things like a Strawberry/Kiwi explosion in your mouth and all it tastes like is cold soup. Juice also hit you heavily in the wallet. For instance, $4.99 for a litre! I felt like Juice had held me by ankles, shaking the money out of my pockets. I've never felt more anger than what I feel for Juice. I believe Juice can tear this nation asunder if we do not put a stop to it. Cannot we simply round up all the Juice in the country and ship the dirty Juice somewhere else? I know that overweight people should drink Juice and not soda pop, so I say we send all the Juice to those facilities that the overweight visit to assist them in weight loss. I believe they are camps of some sort. Don't get me started about Concentrated Juice. What a rip-off!

Your boy,

Dolphy

PS: I hope to hear from that art school soon. The Rabbi was very impressed with my portfolio. So much so, he couldn't stop smiling! Huzzah!

Consumer Report

Nerdburger Invents Useless Crap

By: Johnny Technotronic

Mother's Basement (NY) - Local nerdburger, Jim Cohee, has spent a ridiculous amount of time and money on his new invention. The forty-three year old dorkus explains, "It seemed like every time I called a lady's cellular phone, she never picked up. On the rare chance I did get to talk to them, the woman would always tell me that she did not hear her phone ring. I presumed that it was due to the fact that ladies keep their phones in their purses and it muffles the sound of the ringer." The pathetic excuse droned on, "So I spent my life savings and took out a few bank loans to invent a small ring shaped device that the lady can wear on her finger. Using Bluetooth technology, the ring will light up and emit a small, non-sexually arousing vibration when the cellular phone rings. Therefore, the woman will always know when her phone is ringing and avoid an embarrassingly long 'Missed Calls' list and miss out on what could be an amazing date."

Mr. Cohee showed his invention to Cingular spokesman Seth Moore. Moore erupted with laughter in the midst of Cohee's demonstration. "Holy hell, that's the dumbest invention I've ever seen! And it cost you how much to make?! I mean, even if it wasn't total crap, who would pay that much? What a f**cking loser! I bet you’ve never even been laid, eh dork? Hey Mike, get in here and listen to this douchebag!" Even in the face of such blatant ridicule, the polyester clad social moron is not discouraged. “Who cares what that jerk says,” the loser said with high hopes. “He’s just jealous that he didn’t think of this little gem first.”

Always skeptical, this reporter hit the streets to talk to you, the consumer. I ran into Andrea Walden on busy 5^th Avenue. I showed the attractive Ms. Walden the joke’s stupid invention. When asked if she would ever consider using such a retarded device, she rolled her eyes and said, “No friggin’ way. What a totally useless idea. What kind of tool thought up this piece of sh**?” I brought my findings back to said tool and Cohee was still adamant on getting this waste of plastic mass produced. “You’ll see, sir. I will be renowned as a great inventor – and I’ll finally get a hold of these ladies for dates.” Then, Cohee’s teenage brother shouted from the family’s kitchen, “Hey f**cktard, the reason the chicks don’t pick up when you call is because you’re a f**cking nerdburger!” As the brother laughed, Jim Cohee stood there awkwardly biting his nails, most likely contemplating suicide for the umpteenth time.

College Application Essay from a Poorly Home Schooled Student

Deer Deen of Admishins.

My name is Rory McInglerod and I wood very much like to go to your fine univercity. As you may or may not have seen from my applicashin. I am a homeschooled student. My mom teacher says that I am very smrt and have a lot of potency in my learning brain. I have learned stuff like math and grammer and fingerpainting and home depot. I also know the outside of the mall very good. I named the pigins there. They are my friends. Anywhos. I really know a buncha things and wood make a valuble ass to your very pretententchus institoot. Your probly thinking *hey, why wood this smrt guy choose my school? He cood go anyweres.* Your right Mr. Deen. I cood go anyweres with my hi IQ number. But I choosed Arizona State becuz of you're hi moral standards. I am a Christin like all you're students and wood fit in easy. I also look forward to meeting a girl. I heard that ASU has girls and they even go to the same classes as the boys. And they also touch boys on their dingy-doos. My ant touched my dingy-doo once and I gotta say. It was weird. But fun. I digest. I am interested in more things than dingy-doo touchings. Like you know other things. Such as TV and pornograffi. I wuz a Royal Ranger in church and went to a circus once.

1 thing I wood relly like to be when I am old like you is a dish warsher at the White House. Can you imagine warshing dishes for the president? No you can't. It blows the mind. I wood also not mind being a Deen of Admishins. That seems like a very exciting carer. And very rewarding too also. Ok. Mr. Deen. I have to go do my chores. My mom teacher always gets peenut butter all over the dog and I have to clean it up. I have never seen a dog that loves peenut butter so much in my 37 years of life. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincearly your'es.

Rory McInglerod

Lying to Your Kids Makes Them Turn Out Like Me

When I was a young child, all I ever wanted was a puppy. I was an only child living in a neighborhood without any other children. My parents sucked as far as playing went, so I needed a companion. My parents also sucked as far as tricking my innocent ass. My dad really wanted me to be a sports superstar, baseball in particular. No wonder I hate baseball today. Anyway, to get me motivated to practice, he would resort to bribery. On one particular day, he told me that if I practiced catching, he would give me a "wonderful surprise." I jumped up and down yelling, "Is it a puppy, is it a puppy? Tee hee hee." (I was a little gay back then) Dad was like, "It could be," and winked. "Oh boy, a puppy!!!" I gaily screamed. However, practicing was never good enough to get the surprise, I actually had to complete a difficult task. This task was to catch three "pepper" balls (aka: really hard thrown fast balls) in a row. I was six fucking years old here, mind you and tying my shoes was too complex for me at this point. To say that my hand-eye coordination was awful, would've been a compliment.

He threw the first few and of course, they painfully bounced off of my chest or stomach. Luckily, he didn't aim at my head. Normally, any little discomfort would've made me scream, cry and run away, but I wanted a goddamn puppy. I dealt with the pain. Then, I actually caught one. And another, and finally, I caught three in a row. "Huzzah!" I yelled. "Lets go get my puppy! Skipadee do-dah, poodie doo!" However, the prize was not a puppy. It was a fucking bag of sunflower seeds. "Just like the pro's chew, son," my mean ass father said. I was not very happy with this turn of events. I yelled and screamed, "Gimme my puppy! I want my puppy, now!" To which, he laughed and went inside to share the joke with my mother. I decided to run away, but only made it to the back yard before I had to pee. Again, I was a little bitch and couldn't pee outside.

A few weeks later, Dad wanted me to practice my hitting. But I was still pissed off and didn't want to have anything to do with a damn baseball. Then, my conniving mother got involved. She said, "If you hit a homerun, we'll get you a puppy." "A PUPPY! I wanna puppy, now!" I screamed in my high pitched voice I still have today. I was gullible and innocent, so I did not see the horrible plan at work. They both knew my 35 pound body couldn't hit a fucking homerun if my life depended on it. It was physically impossible. However, trying to do it would improve my hitting and therefore please my father who would then buy my mother things and thus pleasing everyone - except me.

I got up to the plate and after several pop ups to the pitcher, I caught hold of one and hit it over the fence. I screamed like a nun having her first orgasm and skipped around the bases yelling, "Ima gettin' a puppy! I can hit homeruns for puppies!" I ceremoniously stomped on home plate and demanded said puppy. My mother bent down on one knee, put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Oh, honey, you had to hit two homeruns to get a puppy and it's getting too late for you to try another one." My heart broke and my brain exploded. If I knew any curse words, they would've flown. All I could say was, "That's the biggest load of poop I've ever dangin' heard. Darn it to heck!" Then, I cried for a long while. To shut me up, they said I could have a hamster. Joy, a hamster. BUT, if I showed that I could take care of the hamster, then maybe I'd get a puppy. I took the fucking hamster and named him TJ after my favorite police drama at the time.

One day on the way to school, we were driving through the woods and I saw a bag of puppies on the side of the road. I swear to God, I'm not making this up. Some redneck assbag took his dog's puppies and threw them in a sack and dumped them. I pleaded with Mom to stop and save them and then maybe we could even keep one. She said that we were running late, but if they were still there on our way home that afternoon, we could stop and get them. Of course, they weren't. I'm sure she drove back, tied the sack up, and threw it in the lake.

Fortunately for me, my parents divorced soon after that. Together they were formidable at psychological warfare, but separated, they were no match for a spoiled, whiney, guilt tripping son of a bitch like me. A few months after the divorce, I went up to Mom and said, "It's all my fault you got divorced. I shoulda never been born." My mother was horrified and felt terrible. She asked what she could do to prove that I deserved life. I stared up at her with my best Hazel Guiltiness stare and said, "Gimme a puppy. I wanna puppy, NOW!" Checkmate, Ma.

The next day I got a cocker spaniel. I cleverly named him Cinnamon and we had a wonderful time together - until I got bored with him. One day I came home from school and Cinnamon wasn't there to greet me. I searched the house calling his name, but no dog anywhere. My mom got home and I asked where the sam hill Cinnamon was. "Oh, he's visiting some friends for a couple of days. He'll be back soon," she lied. I was dumb and believed her and then a couple of weeks passed. I asked when he was coming home and she said, "He really likes it at his friend's house and wants to stay there. You can visit anytime you want though." "Let's go NOW!" I yelled. "Um, not right now. Maybe later," my mean ass mother said. I did get to visit him once. He lived in the ghetto with a bunch of white trash kids. I hated them and how they loved Judge Wapner. Later on, during high school, I date-raped one of them. "Gimme some pussy. I want some pussy, NOW!" I screamed in my high pitched voice I still have today. Ironically, she became a stripper and her stage name was Cinnamon. We remain close.

Well, Cinnamon was gone, but at least I still had TJ. Although he bit you every time you touched him, he was better than nothing. TJ lived with my father, probably so I'd still go over there. I was a Mamma's boy. Anyway, I went over for the weekend and Dad told me that TJ died. This was just too much. First Cinnamon went to live in a trailer park and now TJ is dead. Plus, I guess the divorce sucked too. I went to the backyard to say a prayer for the little bastard and I saw his cage sitting on the wall adjacent to the snake infested woods. The door was open. Later on in life, my father admitted, he sat the cage on the wall and opened the door. He hated the rat and wanted it gone. There is a 90 percent chance TJ was eaten by a snake within three minutes of his freedom.

I had forgotten all of this until the other night. Ms. Jackson asked me, "What's the most fucked up lie your parents told you?" After I told her the tale of the puppy, her mouth was gaped. She said that my personality totally makes sense to her now and knows where my manipulation comes from. To be fair to my parents, I did get two puppies when I was eight and they just recently died last year. Add all the dogs my stepdad went through and I had a pretty dog filled childhood. That's why I don't own one now. Dogs are stupid and a lot of fucking trouble; Now, I'd take a hamster over a puppy without hesitation.

Hungry. God Bless.

Get to Know the Homeless

by: Juan Carlos

Vagrant, destitute, down-and-out, bum, hobo, transient, tramp, gutterpup, drifter, bag lady. These are some of the fun things to yell at homeless people. However, have you ever gotten to know one of these hopeless dregs? The answer is probably "no." That is about to change with a groundbreaking new series that will introduce the masses to many of our beloved Northwest Arkansas bums.

The first homeless person profiled in this series is named Dabney Mullins. He works the ramp off of I-540's Bentonville exit at mile marker 85. He told me that this is a prime location due to all the Wal-Mart corporate traffic that goes by. He has also set up a nice hovel under the bridge adjacent to his business. Dabney's marketing strategy is direct and gets his selling points across. He went with the basic cardboard and sharpie option package with his signage. It simply reads, "Hungry. God Bless." He explained his tactic, "You see, everyone can relate to being hungry, so I went that route. Hits every demographic. Also, in this part of the country, most people are Christians. That's why I threw that last part in." Dabney's choice of uniform is a brilliantly depressing flannel coat and torn jeans. He accessorizes nicely with a generic baseball cap and crazy beard. "The more random stuff I get stuck in it," he tells, "the more people think I'm nuts. And that translates into positive cash flow. I've also found that mumbling insane gibberish to myself also boosts my profits."

Since most people are curious about how one becomes and stays homeless, but are too afraid or repulsed to ask, I put the tough questions to Dabney.

Juan Carlos: How did you become a drain on society?

Dabney Mullins: I was a high-powered executive at Wal-Mart and one day suggested in a meeting that the company might want to rethink its gun selling philosopy. I was summarily fired, my house was burned down, all assets were seized, and my wife was forced to fellate a goat. I was blackballed from every company that does business with Wal-Mart, which is all businesses, and ended up on the streets.

JC: Sounded like you got your just desserts. Wal-Mart not selling guns is like George Bush not using a Magic 8 Ball to make all his important decisions. You actually got off lucky in my book.

DM: I suppose you're right.

JC: I am. What are your plans for the future?

DM: I imagine more panhandling until I freeze to death.

JC: Sounds promising. Do you harbor any ill will to the liberal, pinko Democratic party for keeping you homeless?

DM: What?

JC: You know, those left of the aisle, commie, homosexual lovers. They have blocked the GOP's every move to eradicate homelessness and have everyone come to Jesus. Doesn't that enrage you?

DM: Are you insane?

JC: Yeah, I'm insane. Which one of us makes $30K a year, drives a sweet Hyundai Santa Fe, and goes to bed with a former junior college volleyball intermural alternate and which one of us lives under a bridge, drinks his own urine, and has relations with dead squirrel carcasses. I am clearly living the American Dream.

DM: You sure are. Can you spare any change?

JC: Hey Dabney, why don't you get a job or better yet, go f*** yourself?

Do They Ever Just Piss?

Have you ever noticed that whenever you see a fat guy coming out of a bathroom, they have just taken the nastiest shit ever?

Wuxtry! Wuxtry!

Local Church Takes Action Against Rampaging 900 Foot Jesus

Rogers, AR - Local non-blind residents may have noticed the three gigantic crosses right off the Pinnacle Hills exit. The crosses are the result of over a decade of planning and heartache. In 1980, Orel Roberts awoke the 900 foot Jesus and ever since, the behemoth Lord has been terrorizing the Midwest. Sadie Mae Jenkins, a long time Rogerian, remembers the first time she saw the ninety story messiah. "My mother called all of us children out in our Sunday Bests and we were excited to see a very large Jesus. We never woulda thunk that he was so destructive." On that harrowing day, the MegaJesus devoured Sadie Mae's mother and eleven of her fourteen siblings.

Starting with that day in 1984, the rampaging Jesus has made several visits to the area; every single time leaving a wake of devastation. In 1996, Rogers city leaders decided to take matters into their own hands. "First we tried building a 900 foot Satan, but many residents thought it too sacrilegious," former Assemblyman Morris Brown recalled. "Then, my son suggested a 900 foot Santa Claus after viewing a South Park episode. However, the folks at Comedy Central threatened to tie us up in court for years and we had to scrap that idea. After that debacle, we sat around thinking, what's the only thing that can kill a gigantic Jesus. Of course, the answer was a gigantic cross!"

Soon after that fateful meeting, ground broke on the Giant Cross Initiative. Years into the planning, the council decided to also add two more giant crosses in the rare event that Jesus, Godzilla, and Mothra all attack at the same time. "You never know with those three on the loose," Brown said. The unveiling of the Giant Crosses was host to some of the most prominent Northwest Arkansans. Even Sadie Mae Jenkins strapped on her two prosthetic legs to witness man's triumph over giant religious icons. After the ceremony, Sadie Mae stood in awe and whispered, "I dare you to mess with us now, you crazy 900 foot Jesus."

Things My Retarded Uncle Taught Me

*Licking a rabbit may bring you good fortune.
*Urine can save your life in 17 various ways.
*Never punch a Nun on a Tuesday.
*Throwing rocks at your child is a helpful way to build self-esteem.
*Sexual intercourse in the rain is the leading cause of HIV.
*Monkeys can tell the difference between consensual sex and rape.
*The color blue was invented by the Nazi's in 1939.
*The Internet is an excellent way to view obscure porn.
*Chiropractors have the cure for cancer, but are waiting for a little goddamned respect.
*Midgets are actually really old children.
*People who eat too much are generally obese.
*Dogs are jealous of things made of glass.
*Eating your vomit is not a good money saving tip.
*Brown suits invite sexual advances from Gypsies.
*Studies have shown that colorblind people are statistically more racist.
*Do not - under any circumstances - smash your testicles with a hammer.
*You should not trust blond, brunette, redheaded, or bald women.
*Your anus makes an excellent place to hide valuables.
*Owning a cellular phone automatically makes you a great human being.
*For every text message you send, a baby's soul is banished to Hell.
*Cats do not make very good spouses.
*The dinner table is not an acceptable place for masturbation.
*Business cards may bring about the end of civilization.
*An empty paste bottle is a good receptacle for unwanted semen. It is also a functional epoxy.
*Pepsi used to contain heroin, but changed the recipe in 1989. Now it contains the crushed dreams of orphans.
*In certain circles, ovarian cysts are a delicacy.
*Vikings wore funny ass hats.
*You know that guy Lot from the Bible? Yeah, he had a fucked up life.
*All prescription drugs have the same ingredients.
*Pop-up ads are the only thing standing between us and a total nuclear holocaust.
*The Indians knew that the taint was the tastiest part of a buffalo, but never told anyone.
*Country music has caused more deaths than the Civil War and Brennagin's Scuffle combined.
*Don't believe a man if he says he has a unicorn in his pants.
*It sucks being retarded. Please let me out of this trunk.

Night of a Thousand Cocks

It's Saturday night and I've spent ten hours on the couch catching up on this season's "Smallville" episodes on YouTube. For those of you that don't know, I have to watch anything and everything related to Superman, Batman, or Spiderman. That includes poorly written teen dramas. Hell, I even watched the short-lived and horrible "Birds of Prey" just because it was about Batman's daughter and Batgirl/Oracle. Anyway, after staring at my laptop for so long, my eyes were beginning to bleed and I figured I needed to get out of the house. About that time, Gayron called me up and said that he and his dude were having a get together at their Gay House and then maybe go to a bar.

After I was there for a couple hours, they decided it was time to go out. It was Gayron and his dude, along with Rocky and his dude. They told me that they were going to a regular bar and then "maybe" hit the gay one. Whatever, I was down. We all climbed into Gayron's classic boat of a Mercedes and were on our way. However, I soon realized that I was duped and we were heading directly to the gay bar. They laughed and made fun of my misfortune. While we were in line, I realized that I was a fifth wheel with two gay couples. Fuck, I needed to be drunk - ASAP. Fortunately, I was dressed like a slob, so nobody thought I was very attractive.

A little while later, I saw Mis's work gay friend, Pottery Barn, and his dude. They were accompanied as always by Stevie Nicks. I've written of her before, but am too lazy to link back to the original post; so I'll just recap. Every time I hang out with Mis and her work pals, this chick gives me the fucking creeps. She flirts with me, but it is a creepy flirt, like an "I'm going to rape you" flirt. She also looks like a troll. I introduced my gays to Mis's gays and they hit it off and I made my way to the upstairs part of the club, where it is well lit. I hit the bathroom and while I was writing my name in the trough with my manly, high pressured, urine stream, two guys opened the door, yelled, "Oh no, it's a lion!" and ran out. That's the weirdest fucking thing I've ever been called. I finished up and they were outside the door. I asked if they called me a lion, because it just seemed ridiculous if I actually heard it correctly, and they said they did. Later, I surmised that they recognized that I was a Leo. "Oh, look how he stands when he pees. He must be a Leo," they probably said.

After I growled at a few people, I saw a very hot, yet very drunk girl sitting alone on a sofa. I sat down next to her and we started talking. On the plus side, she was straight, however, she was also married. That ruled out any making out, but I honestly didn't care. It was just nice to talk to someone from my side of the fence. She was there with a couple of girlfriends. I stood up to meet one of them and this was the tallest, most Amazon woman I've ever met. She was six-foot-seven, for the love of Mike, and my head came to her nipple. She thought that was fun and kept grabbing me by the hair and motorboating me. Oh yeah, she was not attractive, so it kinda sucked. Anyway, the married chick stood up and she was a bit over six feet tall also. Their other friend was only six-three. I felt like Frodo visiting the fucking Land of the Giants.

The Amazons and I went to the bar next door and continued to get drunk. Gayron came by for a minute and started making out with the married hottie just to piss me off. "Ha, ha, it's fine because I'm gay," he always taunts. I really hate him. Before I knew it, it was 2am and the bars were closing down. I left the Amazons and went back to find Gayron and the boys. They were nowhere to be found, however, Stevie Nicks was there and had me cornered. "Where have you been," she asked with perversion in her voice. "Trying to make out with a married girl," I replied with fear in my voice. "Oh, you like making out with married girls? Well, I'm married," she said as I struggled to suppress the urge to vomit. Then, with lightning quick speed, that you would not associate with someone so trollish, I found that I was kissing this thing. I freaked out and ran up the stairs, most likely screaming. I ran outside and looked around. Gayron and the boys were still missing in action. I was stuck at the gay bar and too dumb to remember that there is actually a taxi in Arkansas.

I saw Pottery Barn and figured that I could get a ride from him. I was talking to him and the Amazons when Stevie grabbed me by the arm. She said, "Walk me to my car so I can get my coat." Since I cannot ever say "no" to anything, I reluctantly escorted her. On the way, she turned to me and said, "Will you please come to Pottery Barn's house and sleep with me?" It was one of the few times in my life that words had escaped me. I was flabbbbbbbbbergasted and now very sick. Inside my head, my three personas were screaming. Turkey Boy was even negated. He hid behind Heh Heh and left me to deal with this mess and all I had left was my fight or flight responses.

Then, as if by my own will, I saw Gayron's big, beautiful boat coasting down the street. Rocky saw me and threw the door open and I fucking booked away from Stevie Nicks in World Record pace. I wouldn't be surprised if I left a plume of dust and a few bobby pins lingering in the air. I dove in the car and yelled, "GO, GO, GO!" I tell you, I've never been more happy to see a car full of homosexuals in my life. We went back to the Gay House and people (ie: more gay dudes) started showing up for an afterparty. I was still shaken from the indecent proposal, so I was ready to head back to casa de turk. I made a little pit stop in the bathroom and during mid-stream, the door opened. This dude yelled, "Don't you lock the door?" I yelled back, "It was closed, who doesn't knock on a closed bathroom door?" He then proceeded to stare at my junk until I yelled at him to get the fuck out. He said, "You pee like a Leo," and left.

I left there, got home and resumed watching "Smallville" episodes on my laptop - just praying that the entire night had been one long bad dream and I'd wake up next to Bobby Ewing, who was alive and well this whole time.

Goodbye

Since I was almost killed by a cigarette today, I thought I'd share my latest quit smoking scheme. I got on this new drug, Chantix, and it is supposed to block your nicotine receptors. I've been on it a few days and it seems to be helping the crave. Yesterday I only had 4 smokes from 8am - 8pm, but then had 16 smokes from 8pm - 1am, so who fucking knows... My "Quit Date" is this Saturday, so the fine folks at Pfizer send me a daily affirmation and activity to make sure I quit smoking and continue to buy their drug. Today's activity was, "Write a Goodbye Letter to Cigarettes," and that was way too stupid to pass up.

My Dearest Cigarettes,

I believe it is time we had a little talk. I don't know an easy way to say this, so I'll just get to it. I'm leaving you cigarettes, I'm moving on with my life with another destructive substance. Please don't get me wrong, I've loved you so very much for the past eleven years. Boy, did we have some good times. I remember when we met. I was in fifth grade and you tried to seduce me. I was too young and innocent for you then, but then you caught me seven years later in a moment of drunken weakness. I remember that one of Ginny Giles' boobs was talking to me and then it gave me a taste of you. I stood up to proclaim how great you were, and then your siren song hit me. The wonderful dizziness and the nausea were oh, so great. We hung out sporadically that summer; only when I wanted Sara Beth to think I was cool like her, but I knew that you and I didn't have a future - yet you just wouldn't give up, you crazy romantic fool.

During my freshman year of college, you saw how I struggled to make new friends. You convinced me to hang outside with the smokers and I met some great and wonderful bad influences. Then, you had me. I was all yours, all the time. Years went by and you got me through all the rough spots in my life. Your soothing burns when I wanted to stop my teen angst filled thoughts, were a lifesaver. When I cleaned my life up, I wanted to part ways, but you had a hold on me and eventually that hold turned to fear. That was the beginning of the end for us, my love.

I did leave you for eight wonderful months, but you manipulated me back to you with your vile cousin, Black & Milds. You can be such a bastard sometimes. I do thank you for all the things you have given me. The social pariah status, torturing myself in extreme hot and cold weather, smelling like ass constantly, the dulled teeth, black lungs, zero stamina, and super cool cough. I'm also tired of supporting you. I've spent around $13,000 on you, and what do I have to show for it except for a few butts in the trashcan?

Yes, it is over. I am seeing a prescription drug now. It is much healthier than you, as it only damages my liver and digestive system. It also costs ten dollars less per month and since I am great about not getting addicted to things, I should be off them in a matter of months. I know that I'll see you around and I hope things aren't awkward between us. I really did love you and I guess a part of me always will. Remember the good times, my dear.

With Love,

Sean

PS: If you still want to get together and fuck every now and then, I'm cool with that.

Surgeon General's Warning

I generally think that I'll die due to my own stupidity. Like I won't be paying attention in the car, or I'll contract some ailment from my poor lifestyle; such as heart disease, liver failure, some STD I'll catch from having sex with monkeys, etc. I don't know that I've ever considered that I would die due to someone else's stupidity; but not anymore.

Since Sally is such a environmental unfriendly car, I have fill up with gas every other day. I actually got gas yesterday morning, but the pump was super slow. Add that to the fact that I was already an hour late and it felt like I was pumping gas in Antarctica, I gave up after only three gallons. That three gallons burned through quick, so once again, I was at the pump during lunch. As I pulled up to the pump, a Blazer drove up on the other side. A woman opened the door and she was smoking, which is retarded all around. I smoke, but I do it with as much common sense as one can have who is slowly killing themselves; eg: I don't smoke around children, closed spaces, and definitely not around thousands of gallons of highly flammable liquid.

Silently judging the woman in my head and making sure my testicles hadn't fallen off from frostbite, I didn't pay much more attention to her - until she started her car. Yep, this dumbass started pumping gas and then got back in her car and started the damn thing. Then, I saw to my left, her half smoked, still smoldering cigarette four feet from me and two feet from Sally. Also, to make things more dire, three streams of liquid were slowly inching their way towards the filter of death. (You can imagine the music running through my mind.) Granted, the liquid was probably melted ice, but I saw the rainbow shimmer that gas gives off when mixed with water. My only saving grace was that if there was an explosion, that bitch would be blown to bits along with me. Fortunately, there were indentions on the pavement in each of the stream's paths, which slowed them down long enough for me to finish pumping gas unscathed. However, I didn't drive off immediately because I needed to run in and get a pack of cigarettes.

You Don't Even Know How I Tried My Best at Getting a Divorce

I really love how odd my pals are. In their own unique way, each one of them can really help turn anything into a good time. Let's take Friday night, for example. Friday night, there was a birthday party for Bocephus at the local piano bar. I didn't have much in common with his friends since I don't know anything about motorcycles, but Mis would be there and my newest crush, Super-Duper Uber Hottie, said she'd go with me so I knew that I'd have a good time. Unfortunately, hanging out with me is detrimental to your health and my objet d'affection came down with a case of the funk. I got to the bar feeling somewhat disappointed and totally unshecky; I didn't know if I would be able to bounce back. Mis had her hands full with Bocephus, so she couldn't help. (Yes, I am aware the world doesn't revolve around me, but it fucking should) Then, as if sensing my despair, my phone started blaring Outkast. It was Ms. Jackson and she turned the night around. Her and I really love the Dane Cook special and like to yell the catchphrases from it. If you haven't seen it, they are:
"You don't even know!"
"I tried my best."
"I'm getting a divorce!"

MJ challenged me to only use those three phrases whenever I met someone new at the bar. I raised the bar and threw in the classic Clerks line, "My love for you is making fuck, Berzerker!" There it was, my challenge for the night and let me tell you it was tough. I tried it out a few times and switched up how I said them, but it never worked right. Then, it all fell into place. I went outside to smoke and there were a few people out there and I nailed it.

GIRL 1: How you doing?
ME [Whispers]: I tried my best.
GIRL 1: What?
ME [Agitated]: I'm getting a DIVORCE!
GIRL 2: Oh, that sucks man, I'm sorry...
ME [Yelling]: You don't even KNOW!
GIRL 1: Yeah, you're right, I haven't been married.
ME [Confused]: My love for you is making fuck, Berzerker?
GIRL 1&2 [Nervous laughter]: Nice talking to you.

To ease their minds, I told them of the challenge and they thought it was really weird, but a little funny. After that, I was back to good Turk form and fucked with people all night. Some fun things of note did happen: I was wearing my "Greatest American Hero" shirt and the piano dudes started playing the show's theme song (Believe it or not, I'm walking on air...). Needless to say, I went a little nuts. They also played Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently," and Mis and I being the only people in the bar that knew the song, yelled every word. She said when they started playing it, I screamed like a girl. Whatever, I'm all man, all the time. Some fat girls told me this gem: "We think you're hot, but you should dress more Sex in the City and less Malcolm in the Middle." I wanted to tell them: "I think you're fat and you should shouldn't go out in public." And of course, we ended up at the Gay Bar. Which was awesome because to see Bocephus in a gay bar was fucking priceless. I think I may write a one act play about it.

An Instance of Bad OCD

I've been thinking about this movie I saw when I was a little kid. It came on some Saturday morning in 1983 and the name of it was "All the Money in the World." I am compelled to write about it; I don't want to, I don't know the point, but I cannot focus on anything else until I write about this obscure movie I saw when I was six, so here you go. If for some reason I was forced to post this, you should quit reading right now - unless you're very bored.

My memory is hazy about it, but the plot of this masterpiece went like this: Some dumbass kid finds a leprechaun and gets to make a wish. He wishes for (as the title suggests) all the money in the world. Sure enough, all the damn money in the world "pops" into his house. Everyone freaks out and chaos ensues. Ronald Reagan is super pissed, so he calls Parker Brothers and declares that Monopoly money is the new US currency. However, Reagan didn't take into account how shifty leprechauns are and all the Monopoly money ended up at the little douchebag's house. The feds tried to take a page out of the Flintstones' book and introduced a clam based economy. Of course, all the clams in the world ended up at this rat faced kid's house. They even tried to use an economy based on underage Thai prostitutes, but you guessed it, all the hookers were transported to the tow-headed bastard's house. At the end of the movie, the kid realized the effects of greed and convinced the leprechaun to give him a wish if he blows him. Turns out that the leprechaun was not magical at all, but an Irish dwarf pedophile. Everything was resolved when the Masons called Satan and had him put everything right. Nobody learned anything.

Why I had to write about this movie is still a mystery to me. Maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me that I'm being greedy. I don't think I'm heading towards greed; shit, I'm a bad day away from selling all of my possessions and becoming a cross country transient. I have been hanging out with a short Irish dude, but I don't think he's a sex offender. Hell, he's always saying how he isn't and only wants a child's perspective when he loses his super cute puppy and needs help finding it. I tell him he needs to invest in a leash and he just laughs that creepy laugh of his. No, their must be another reason I am obsessing about this dumbfuck movie. I haven't even had a Thai prostitute in months, so that can't be it. I've paid my Mason dues and given the Devil his CD's back, so what the hell? Maybe I'm protesting something - money, Republicans, clams, children. Yeah, that's it. Children are stupid and if you don't watch out, they'll ruin the world's economy with their lame-brained schemes. I think that most, if not all, children are communists and their goal is to turn us all into cotton candy. No, that was "Killer Klowns from Outer Space." Now, THAT was a good son of a bitchin' show! You gotta rent that tonight!

Your Kiss is on My List

I just realized that I am going to be 30 years old in six months. I don't think I can handle it. It's not the getting older part that gets me, it's the list of things I wanted to do by the time I turned 30 that is very incomplete. Basically, I have eight short months to complete the open items or my life will be deemed as a failure.

Things to do by the time I'm 30

By: Sean White, Age 11

Collect every He-Man

Go to Moon

Alienate friends and family

Own house with indoor basketball court

Build flying car or learn to fly

Go to three separate colleges

Meet someone who's been gangbanged

Try corn

Own every Superman comic printed from today to age 30

Become the most awkward date ever

Make a gazillion dollars

Get married

Get divorced

See Neil Diamond in concert

Write the Great Romanian Novel

Kill a man

Learn an instrument

Become a chain smoker

Try not to be such a pussy

Go skiing

Gueststar on Charles in Charge as Buddy's brother

Kick Bozo in the nuts

Learn something about cars

Find out how to use tools

Eat whole package of bacon at once

Shit for five straight days

Try manual labor

Become the greatest lover of all time