Sunday, December 18, 2005

Huh. It's been roughly six years since I've made a new entry, but after weeks of begging and the sacrifice of 16 virgins, I decided it might just be time to dust off the old blog and crack it open. Don't think that I haven't spent my time away not doing anything productive. I have both developed, and cured cancer. Because I cured myself, I decided not to reliease the recipe to the public, though I will tell you it includes sugar, spice, and everything nice; and I may have spilled some Chemical X into the mix. I also starred in 14 films, though only 14 of them were pornographic. I've read a lot of catalogs.

After the pleading of so many, I began to wonder just what I should write about, and a few ideas trickled into my mind. The most tempting thought was a rather long study of douchebags, but then I realized people don't want to read that much about feminine hygine products. So I kept thinking, and no ideas seemed to drop in. I was stopped left and right on the street by passersby asking, "When is the new blog coming?", or "Pay the god damn child support, Reggie needs to eat." I was often rudely inturrepted while at the barber shop, annoying both me and the greasy Italian man who was shearing my pubes.

So I kept considering returning to the trusty ol' "Create Post" screen. I realized Chritmas was but a few weeks away, and my usual gift of Herpes never seems to be what people want, so I decided that maybe if I shot a new entry out of my body, people may be pleased with my behavoir. But I was still strapped for ideas. Then something came out of left field (or right, depending on your vision), and struck me right in the face. What hit me was not enjoyable. The enjoyment was comparable to opening a large red box on Chritsmas morning only to find a Japanese man inside.

Allow me to finally tell you what it was that so rudely struck me in the head. Roughly two weeks ago, I enter my usual place of residence to find my mother chatting it up on the phone. After she hung up and made me three sandwiches and prepared my bath, she explained what all her talking was about. Her friends are staying over at my house on Saturday night (Which is right now, as I'm writing this). I find no problem with that and give her a nod of approval. She then lets me know that their friend's children are also staying over. Not cool in the least bit. I neared striking her, until I realized we were almost out of peanut butter and there was no way I'd go to the grocery store to get more. She also informs me that she has donated my bed to whichever messy kid wants to put his nasty paws upon my pillows. This angers me. I've never met these kids, or even seen a picture of them. I do not want them getting into my bed and making a mess. I don't think my sandwich-maker realizes how creepy it is to enter someone's house whom you've never seen, then slipping deep into their slimy bed, of which you don't know what, or who, they've done in there.

She then continues to inform me of who these children are.
1. An 8 year old boy.
2. A gal in college.
3. A 16 year old alcoholic boy.

Now, when I say "alcoholic", I don't mean "Occasionally has a taste of some really old grape juice". This kid has attended AA meetings. Right now I'm not so hot on the idea of him getting into my bed, or going into my room where he will most likely leave with a pillowcase full of my things. So for the next week or two I continue to object to having this fellow over to my house, especially not near my collection of Encyclopedia Brown books. I plea to my mother about the situation, but she insures me he's no thief.

So now, today, around 2p.m. the whole crew pulls up to the house. In walk the gang. The 8 year old boy needs braces badly, or just a solid kick to the mouth. I have nothing against the college gal. Then in comes AA boy. He's about 16 feet tall, appearing to be the son of a brontasaurus. He wears a white hoodie, with squinted eyes, both saying, "I'm a bad ass", and "Where is the alcohol?". He sits on the couch and proceeds to watch television. After awkwardly standing around with the creators of this beast, I make my getaway and dart to my room, my arms full of notebooks, ready to get my study on.

While in my room I not only got my study on, but I also befriended, and saved the life of, a ladybug. I cracked the widow so the smoke from the four trashbags of pot I was burning could escape, and in flies this little guy. He immediatly falls in love with the light, repeadetly trying to mount it, only to be faced with intense heat and a very hard surface. He tried to dry hump the light for 10 minutes or so before giving it one last go and then falling to his near-death. He landed next to me, where I then picked him up and delivered him to his outside home. Mission accomplished. His family will be happy to have him back, but then again, he could have been a huge dick, and I only fueled his pissing off all of the other ladybugs. But tha was a risk I had to take.

After three hours of hardcore studying and saxaphone playing, I was called down for some dinner. Thanks to a poor decision, I rode in a car with the three clowns and my brother. During the ride, Dr. DrinksALot insisted on playing his gangsta rap. This rap was beyond horrible, and he had an 8 year old child in the back of the car. Now, I haven't written any parenting books, but I am under the impression that it is not good for an 8 year old to be hearing about "Running from the mutha****in' cops". Mr. Alcohol disagreed and played several rap selections from his very gangsta iPod. One of which was "Laffy Taffy". I could write several volumes of words about that song, but now isn't the time.

After we arrived from the awkward car ride, we entered and sat down. Most people look at the menu at a restaraunt. Instead, Senor Sauce looked at the beer menu for about 10 minutes before realizing he had a food menu. Here's something to keep in mind for my future parenting book. Sprite is not a good drink for 8 year olds with ADD. This kid is a psycho, running around a restaranut and skating on his cool "Heely's", which have probably caused more broken necks than professional neck breakers in the last 10 years. I tried to ignore him as best I could, but every time he opened his mouth I expected a flock of doves to emerge from the gaps in his teeth. We ate an awkward dinner, and promptly returned to the car for another awkward voyage home. We arrived, and the parents continued to chat while I sat around not doing much. Then came the turning point, who was going to slumber in my room? In my bed? Do they realize how many African-American ladies have been in that bed?

The ruling was that...

Excuse me while I urinate.

I am back, and only got a little on the seat.

Now where was I? Oh yes, the ruling was for the gal to sleep in my room, the 8 year old also on my room on the floor, and for Commander Coors to slumber in the basement. I was pleased with this ruling, assuming that Professor Pilsner has stickier fingers than the other two parties.

So the day wears on, with the 8 year old kid eating his weight in food. He has 15 pieces of candy, which is probably due to the subliminal messaging of his broter's sugary rap music, and then at 11:30pm requests a peanut butter sandwich. I nearly went upstairs and took a leak on the floor where he was going to sleep, but then I realized that is the room I sleep in. He ate his sandwich and then ran at roadrunner speeds around the house, tearing up carpet and creating dust storms left and right. I would have asked him to stop, but his crazy mind would intrepret that as "Eat a lot more candy", which would have only worsened the situation. After his marathon runs, he enters the basement, where his brother is probably working on his home-made Meth lab. He comes back up the stairs and requests for me to play some of those videogames with him. I had nothing else to do, so I accepted.

I find his brother downstairs, and I tighten my hole out of fear. We fire up the game, where I proceed to gently let him win by one point, so he didn't cut me and wear my skin. After our game we go upstairs to again do a whole lot of nothing. The psycho kid decided it's time to watch a feature film. He selects "Napoleon Dynamite". I put it on and leave the basement, where him and his siblings watch the talking images. They again return after the talkie is over, and stand around listening to interesting conversation about digital camera with our parents.

After this, it is declared night time. Brewmaster Bud enters the basement, and Admiral ADD and the college gal file into my room. I mount the couch ready for the evening, when I was drawn to the computer and proceded to write this enormous entry. The gang is expected to leave at 10a.m. Sunday morning, and I hope they stick to the plan.

If you read all of that, the next time I see you I'll call you an inappropriate name.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

I want to run a marathon, just so after I run it I can compare scents to "under my sack after I ran that marathon".

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Lately, a question has been on my mind. The question appears to be one of opinion at first, but when thought about the answer is fact. Is Simple Plan the worst band of all time? Upon first thought, you may think "Well of course, but that's just my opinion." Then you consider it more, "Wait..." and listen to one of their songs. "Oh my god..." and finally realize, "It is a fact that Simple Plan is the worst band of all time."

I first began questioning the band's worthiness a few nights ago after viewing MTV's "Nokia Unwired at Hard Rock Live" concert. Wow, I just realized that "Nokia Unwired at Hard Rock Live" is probably the most random combination of six words possible. "Cat bag saw keyboard coffee inhaler" is a more cohearent combination. But that's beside the point. The concert might have been the funniest 30 minutes of television I have ever seen. Easily the funniest thing I've seen on MTV.

The audience consisted of this diverse group of fans:
9-12 year old girls. Most with braces.
Their parents.
That was about it. A packed house, though. You could see the parents, as they were a clean 2 feet taller than their pre-pubescent daughters. One of the highlights was during the show, seemingly all members of the audience gladly threw up their "devil horn" hand signals, as shown in this picture.

Wow. Personally, nothing screams out "Hardcore Devil worshiping anarchy" than watching a group of grown men wearing womens clothing jump around and whine about disappointing their fathers. I bet they go home every night and eat live animals.

Speaking of the womens clothing, let's take a closer look at the people who make up "Simple Plan".
First we have lead singer "Pierre Bouvier". Wait. Why is your name Pierre? Is that a joke? Were you trying to be funny and outrageous? If your name is Pierre you souldn't have been allowed in the United States. I'm calling to have you deported first thing tomorrow morning.

Let's look at the pict...wait, is your hair spiked up? Spiked up like a 5th grader? You look like you're 10. That's cool. Again, when I think of someone ruling the pits of Hell, I think of someone with gelled-up hair.

Next up we have Mr. David Derosiers. Shall we look at his picture?

Oh my god. I laughed out loud at that. Is that a joke as well? Are you the sad one of the band? Aww, you are? Mommy only let you get the lip and nose piercings, but wouldn't allow the eyebrow? Do you want some ice cream? Will that cheer you up? It will? Okay, good. Come here big guy, it'll be okay.

Next is guitar player Jeff Stinco.

Woah, no sleeves? Watch out. And sharpee on your fingernails? Hardcore. I for one am scared. Wait...are you bald? Why are you bald? Really, what purpose does this serve? Were you so hardcore that your hair fell out? Or did if get torn out while in a fight? Or are you too cool for hair? Does mom know your lip is pierced? I doubt she'd approve. Well, I doubt she could approve, considering she's probably dead, seeing as you look about 4 times as old as everyone else in the band.

Next we have drummer Chuck Comeau.

Wow, he looks like the guy who works at the pharmacy and for several years fills your, and your family's, perscriptions until one day he follows you home and procedes to dig a tunnel and live under your house spying on you for several years, feeding off your garbage, until one day he enters through the widow you cracked in little Stevie's room because sometimes it gets stuff up on the top floor, and eats your entire family. And he spikes his hair up.

Finally we have guitar player Sebastian Lefebvre. I kid you not, that's his last name. I guess his family didn't know that it's not the best way to choose a last name by grabbing a handful of tiles out of the Scrabble bag and randomly arranging them. Is something wrong. Is he mentally challenged? What's he looking at? Is he...Is he urinating? If so, on what?

Here's one more picture of the whole gang in action.

Let's go from left to right. First, guy on the far left, what are you doing with that fist? Are you going to punch yourself in the jaw? If you're going to, please don't hold back. Go for it. Maybe even do it twice. Next, that man or woman? Or should I say boy or girl? 8 year old or 24 year old? With pants that tight, where does his dong go? How can he breathe with that shirt/sweatervest combo on? Did he cut his own hair, and do it with a blindfold on? The next guy...what's wrong with your face? Stop it. It's weird. Next up, are those "Lee Pipes"? Are they shorts or pants? And the guy on the far right...Collared shirt? Popped collar? What? And the pose he's making, I think it's supposed to be funny. Well it's not.

Let's continue to some of the bands songs. Real prizes here. First, the song "Perfect". Off the album "No pads, no helmets...Just Balls." The full title was "No pads, no helmets...Just Balls...In my mouth.", but the record company didn't like it.

Hey dad look at me
Think back and talk to me
Did I grow up according to the plan?

Unless the plan was "Grow up and be a complete asstard who embarasses himself while singing to 9 year old girls", then no, I doubt you grew up "according to plan".

And do you think I'm wasting my time doing things I wanna do?
But it hurts when you disapprove all along

Yes, he does think you're wasting time wearing womens trousers.

And now I try hard to make it
I just want to make you proud
I'm never gonna be good enough for you
I can't pretend that
I'm alright
And you can't change me

If you want to make him proud you could try getting a real job. Although with a name like "Pierre" that may be hard. You could go to mime school. And he could change you. He could put a crossbow with a flaming arrow against your head and pull the trigger. That would be a change for the better.

'Cuz we lost it all
Nothing lasts forever
I'm sorry
I can't be perfect
Now it's just too late and
We can't go back
I'm sorry
I can't be perfect

I'm sorry you make an ass of yourself on a daily basis as well.

I try not to think
About the pain I feel inside
Did you know you used to be my hero?
All the days you spent with me
Now seem so far away
And it feels like you don't care anymore

When you put as much gel in your hair as you do, I highly doubt he cares anymore.

Well that was a touching song. Next we have a song that really teaches all those mean bully's who's boss. It's called "Shut Up" off the album "Still Not Getting Any..."

There you go
You're always so right
It's all a big show
It's all about you

Interesting. Are you talking to me? Oh. No, no it's not. You're the big boy up on the stage. Don't worry, fella, it's all about you for now.

You think you know
What everyone needs
You always take time
To criticize me

No, I don't know what everyone needs, but I do relaize no one needs to hear this crap.

It seems like everyday
I make mistakes
I just can't get it right
It's like I'm the one
You love to hate
But not today

Yes, I will say that you, Pierre, do make mistakes everyday. Like breathing. That's a mistake for you. It would be nice if you could correct that and stop. Do I hate you? Yes. Do I love to do it? No, not really.

So shut up shut up shut up
Don't wanna hear it
Get out get out get out
Get out of my way
Step up step up step up
You'll never stop me
Nothing you say today
Is gonna bring me down

Wow, pretty forceful don't ya think, Pierre? I think you should cool down. And not repeat the same words so many times in one line.

There you go
You never ask why
It's all a big lie
Whatever you do

No, I'm telling the truth. I really dislike you.

You think you're special
But I know and I know and I know
And we know
That you're not

Aww man, you've gone and hurt my feelings, Pierre. Why would you do such a thing? You mean I'm not special? Is that what your school counselor told you? You're special? That's nice. Enjoy it while it lasts.

You're always there to point out
My mistakes
And shove them in my face
It's like I'm the one you love to hate
But not today

It's kinda hard not to. Your mistakes are abundant.

So shut up shut up shut up
Don't wanna hear it
Get out get out get out
Get out of my way
Step up step up step up
You'll never stop me
Nothing you say today
Is gonna bring me down
So shut up shut up shut up
Is gonna bring me down
So shut up shut up shut up
Is gonna bring me down

Enough with the "shut up"'s, Pierre, you're getting really annoying. Come up with a new phrase to use.

Also on Simple Plan's website I found this picture:

I awkwardly stared at that for a few minutes. Is that the whole crew dressed as elderly people? Is it supposed to be funny? Really, it is? Wow, they missed the mark by a long shot. These people just really aren't funny. It's good that they want to be, but they really aren't. Sorry, fellas, you'll get 'em next time.

If you read all of that, I applaud you. You have a very long attention span. You can reward me, as well as yourself, by leaving a comment.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Who returns dog food? Dog food. Why would you need to get a refund for dog food? Of all the items you could exchange at a store for money, or store credit, dog food? This doesn't make any sense. Allow me to start at the beginning...

Earlier yesterday I start to watch a newly purchased DVD, 12 Monkeys. Everything is going good, until about 10 minutes in it stops playing. The disc just gave up, life wasn't worth living for it anymore. Fair enough, I'll exchange it for a new one. Maybe the new disc will be more optimistic. So, around six o'clock, I board the MattMobile and head to Wal-Mart in search of a new DVD.

Wal-Mart. In theory, awesome. Actually, pretty damn crappy. Wal-Mart is one of the worst stores of them all. When you think about it, it's amazing. Startling. Fantastical. Erotic. They have everything. Then you go to the store. And they have nothing. It's amazing how much stuff is on the shelves, yet when I look at the items, I would rather have my face pulled off by hand than use these items.

First I pass the Pharmacy section. Probably 10 aisles worth of medication. I did not know that much medication existed. And how many disease carrying people are walking around Wal-Mart? I know I won't be licking the toilet seats. At least I know how to go out with a bang if I want to kill myself. Grab a pogo stick from the adjacent Toy department, and pogo my way into the first shelf, which then knocks down all 10 aisles. With gallons of various medicines puddling all around me, all I would have to do is crawl on all fours with my tounge on the ground, and wait for the delicious flavors to fade, and then let the pain of my insides desolving set in.

I passed the Pharmacy section and went through the Toy department. Wowzazs, there are some crappy toys there. If I ever got a toy from the Toy department for Christmas I would be very disappointed. There were almost as many crappy toys as there were drugs there. Putting Wal-Mart and "Toy Department" together, I'm surprised I didn't slip and fall in a puddle of urine there. One of the more creepy toys was a 2 and a half foot tall Batman "toy". To all parents, buying a 2 and a half foot action figure of Batman for your child will result in them having nightmares, and when they grow up they will kill you. They will. What kind of parent would get this for their kid in the first place? Would you put it next to your child's crib? Everytime he opens his eyes he sees this person who is as tall as he is, yet looks like a grown man, staring him down? The thing looked like a banshee from hell. I wouldn't want to sleep next to that. I left the toy section, and proceded to the Music department.

Alright, look Wal-Mart, I don't care who shope in your store. I don't care where they're from. But eventually you're going to have to add more music genres than "Mexican" to your library. It's frustrating. I look for anything I can recognize, yet all I see are bands with names starting in "El", "La", or "Speaker". I don't know about the "Speaker", I'm not from Mexico. I left the Music section, and went to the DVD department.

Here I had no complaints. I weeded through hundreds of copies of "The Pacifier" and found a copy of 12 Monkeys, what I was here for. I took it, and proceded to the Customer Service desk to perform the exchange.

Alright, allow me to set up the scene. Three people in line:
1. Black Lady. Obese. Looks like a regular at Wal-Mart. She has a full cart of items. This looks like trouble.
2. White Lady. Obese. Looks like a regular at Wal-Mart. She has a few items.
3. White Guy, with two daughters. Seems normal, but he could have left the kids at home. I didn't tell him, that would have been rude.

The person working here: Between 20 and 40 years of age, woman. I couldn't really put my finger on it, but I'm going to say she was of Mexican descent. That employee discount probably comes in handy.

I mount my position in line. I expect this to take no longer than 10 minutes. The first lady in line apparently did not know you can purchase items at the cash registers. She assumed this is where you pay, and the lady working the Customer Service didn't object. The transaction took about 15 minutes. I don't know why, but the purchase seemed normal, maybe both of them just have birth disorders where they move in slow motion. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask them. After she was finally done, she left. Probably to go film more episodes of "Sister Sister", I think she played the mom.

The next lady was a real treat. White female, probably 50 years of age, a little too much meat on her bones. Maybe she was trying to exchange her metabolism. She meant business. She returns a few items, providing recipts with them. Then, completely out of nowhere, she busts out three boxes. One box- dog food. The other two boxes- "Scooby Snacks" dog treats. WHAT?! Are you kidding? Is this an elaborate scheme? Dog food?! No. No. No. You... No. You can't do that. Or at least shouldn't be able to. Why?! What reason could you possibly have for wanting your money back for dog food?! Did your pooch not enjoy it? When presented with the "Scooby Snacks" did he say,
"Aww hell no. I ain't eating those snacks. Scooby Snacks are for punks. Get me some Purina. That's gourmet, bitch."

The exchange took about 20 minutes. Before it ended, I left. I exited the store. That was 40 minutes well spent.

If you read that and don't comment, I'll push you through the hole in the center of a CD.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Fantastic Four. Wow. What a movie. It's hard to find a movie as bad as "Fantastic Four". After seeing "Dodgeball", I said, "Wow, that was a terrible movie. I do not think any future movie can reach the level of horribleness that this is on." I was not aware that "Fantastic Four" was in production. If I did I would have said "Wow, that was a terrible movie. I can only imagine "Fantastic Four" will be on the same level of horribleness as that." Before I viewed the movie, I had to urinate. I found the most apropriate place to do so the ticket booth. When I was kicked out of that location, I was pointed to the theater's restroom.

A movie theater restroom is one of the most frightening locations on this earth. So many different things can happen. I do not think the ladies reading will relate as much, as it is challenging to sit down in a urinal. It does not matter if the restroom is empty or if it is full of people, the level of terror remains the same. I entered the restroom, thinking I was alone. I unhinged my belt. It was much longer than I imagined and it fell. I grabbed it, narrowly avoiding an unfriendly and akward smell on my belt. I continued with my business. Out of nowhere, someone emerges from a stall. Wow, I did not notice you. Maybe he was standing on the seat to not scuff his new sneakers. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him. I was now aware that there may be other people in here, so I began to relieve myself faster. My head shifted sides, examining every corner of the room, to alert myself of hidden dangers. Maybe someone hiding behind a trash can. I was going to fast I wouldn't be surprised to see smoke rise from my hands, caused by the amount of friction in my urethra.

I just read that sentence and I am sorry. Very sorry. I formally apologize, and hopefully it will not happen again. But I must continue.

I was considering all the dangers I was open to. An attack from behind, I would be completely unaware of their approach. Someone standing next to me, commenting on my bits. A foe grasping my shoulder, spinning me around and yelling "Surprise!", which inadvertently causes me to make a mess on the floor. I continued going, promising myself to start taking in less fluids, because this was getting ridiculous. I finished, and left the restroom.

I now entered the theater/Nazi gas chamber that was showing the holocaust of a movie, "Fantastic Four". It is full of jokes only a 3rd grader would find funny. I don't feel like cleaning vomit off the keyboard, so I don't really want to talk about it any more. I honestly think it was written by an autistic 8 year old clone of Hellen Keller.

After exiting the theater/Auschwitz I conducted a brief survey of the viewers. The resutls startled me.

Fair enough, not a popular movie.

Odd, those numbers seem similar.

That's disgusting.

If you read that and don't comment, I'll have you eat a human-hand sandwich.

Friday, July 08, 2005

MTV. Iv'e had enough. More than enough actually. If the channel "MTV" were a person, I would consider physically harming him. I honsetly hate it more than anything else in the entire world. I may go to the MTV heaquarters with plenty o' dynamite strapped to, and in, me and then threaten to detonate it. Maybe they would stop them.

I watched some MTV earlier this evening. Specifically, I saw the new television show "The '70's House". Wow. I was seriously considering suicide, because if the world can spit out television shows this bad now, who knows how bad it will be tomorrow. The premis of the show is a gang of "hip" people around the age of twenty are thrown into a house and must act as if the year was 1970. Seems very boring, and probably bad. Yet MTV thinks it's funny! Of course they do, if something will raise it's voice MTV will call it hilarious. If something wears both pink, and black colored clothing at the same time, MTV will give them a show. If you put various creams in your hair and wear pastel colored collared shirts and occasionally pop the collars, you will be featured on a dating show. I didn't actually watch much of this "70's House", because I didn't feel like driving far away, purchasing a gun, and scratching the itch on the roof of my mouth by shooting it tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

When that show was over, I looked at the television again. What I saw did not sit well with me. First, I saw a commercial for ring tones. If anyone ever shells out the $1 for a lyric-less version of a rap song that isn't worth a dollar to begin with, I want to know who you are. So I can find you. And let you know that you wasted a dollar. Then I would leave.
The NExt commercial I viewed was for "jokes" that you can purchase for $1 that come to you in the form of a text-message. Wow. Is anyone really that desperate for a crappy joke? I can imagine it.
Asstard shelling out the cash: "Joke"
Joke demon: "If ur american before going 2 da bathroom, and american after leaving da bathroom, wut r u when ur in da bathroom?"
Asstard: "I dunno"
Joke demon: "American"
That was worth a dollar.
The next one really outraged me. A text message "flirting" service. Explain how this works, please. How desperate would you have to be that instead of actually talking to a person over the phone to get your flirt on, you have to text message a 64 year old greasy obese man. That must be really hot.
"Wut r u up 2?"
"kewl wanna do it?"
"i slowly take off my pants"

I'll stop there before it gets too creepy.

The television returned from the commercial break. Oh, look what's on. "Viva La Bam". Wow. Once appropriatley referred to by a critic as "Viva La Fartcake". When I go the MTV with the dynamit crammed into my every orifice, I want "Bam" Margera to be there as well. Really, how could anyone possibly find it appropriate to watch this man. First of all, he basically defines "attention whore". Look pal, I don't think you're cool because you stole your mom's car. I really don't. Please stop trying to get me to like you. He wore a bath robe during part of the episode for no reason at all. I guess his reason was his need for attention. He wore women's make-up dirung the entire episode. Does this make you cool? You're so hardcore that you can wear make-up, but not be gay? I don't think so. Wash it off, assclown. We don't like you.
Also, could it be any more obvious how scripted the show is? Once, "Bam"'s mother found a fancy invitation in her hotel room. She says, "Oh, they're planning something classy?"
1. MTV planned it.
2. Knowing "Bam" it was probably an invitation to a dance party where "Bam" wears a bright pink cape, running around yelling at the top of his lungs while throwing feces at the guests and being generally "extreme".

I turned the television off at that point, and began calling dynamite shops.

Sunday, July 03, 2005

I'm cold. Very cold. Cold enough to by typing this with my nipples. Excuse any grammatical mistakes, please. Earlier this evening, I dined at the restaraunt known as "Chili's". Standard fare I thought, but inside were several things that did not sit well with me. Allow me to start at the beginning...

When first entering the building, I thought the coast was clear. Then, out of nowhere, sprung the horse-woman. I have described this beast before, but allow me to recap. I would say a solid 6'3", I wouldn't be surprised to see her dunk. Around her mouth were various markings, maybe herpes. I strongly hope it wasn't herpes. Maybe gills. Yes, probably gills. Then inside her mouth were braces. This thing was roughly 22 years in age, yet still had the dental assistance of an 11 year old. Lets grow up, please. I don't know who runs that place, but she should be, if even allowed on the premises, in the far back, not the front. Maybe she's dying and her last wish was to greet people. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask her. But as a whole, I would rather have intercourse with Bill Cosby than this horse.

Upon sitting down, I tried to clear my mind of that grisly "human". Our waitier for the evening, Brian, then greeted us. His style of waiting was odd to me. Instead of following the rules, Brian has to break them. That's just what he does. He in fact does not write down the order, but instead remembers it. As a paying customer, this is not a risk I want to take. What if he remembers wrong and brings me a human face? Maybe he is trying to impress me. Maybe I will think, if this man can remember an entire order, he must deserve a healthy tip. Maybe his pride would take a hit. He would feel just like the other waiters, forced to the pen and paper. He would have to tell his mother how the kids at work now call him a "tar-tar" (slang/word I made up for "retarted person) because he couldn't remember properly. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him.

The most disturbing event of the evening were the group of ladies sitting behind me. There were 4 ladies, and one small lady-child. I would say two of the ladies were obese, the other two morbidly obese. Before ordering, they consulted with Brian about how spicy the peppers are. Excuse me? You want the waiters to spend their time in the back testing the peppers? No ma'am. After resolving their dispute, my main man Brian was on his way. After the food was served, the small child deemed it appropriate to sing everyone in the building a song. She started with the ABC's. All 26 of them. When she was done, she asked if I would sing with her next time. No, I won't. Right upon completing the first tune, she burst into the theme song to Barney. Fair game, she seemed to be in the appropriate age group. While in the middle of the song, she announced to everyone in a 16foot radius of her, "I peed". Thank you. I will sleep tonight. I was thinking "I wonder when the last time she urinated was?". My questions have been answered. The two obese woman (I don't know why it took two of them, maybe they were going to play one-on-one later), escorted her to the restroom. A solid 25 minutes later, she returned. They were eating and discussing various topics when I overheard one of the morbidly obese women say "She wet herself". I'm hoping she was referring to the child. I think she has a problem. But anyways, the girl urinated and the adults did not find a reason to get up. Maybe they like eating with the smell of urine in the background. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask them. I next heard the two obese gals discussing "boyfriends". I apologize, but you should have seen these two. Sorry ladies, but the only boyfriend you will be enjoying is named Cob and is made of corn.

If you read that and don't comment, I will autograph your genetalia with a saw. I'm sorry, but I'll have to.

Thursday, June 30, 2005

The subject of my discussion tonight will be tools. Not like a hammer, like a douchebag. I've mentioned them before, but I will mention them again. They never stop. It seems if I'm out of my house after 5pm I will spot a tool everytime I turn my head. I guess tools give birth to more tools. I wouldn't know, I only have six children, and none of them are tools. But I don't know about the several illegitimate ones I have, though. There's too many of those to count.

Back to the topic, defines "tool" in several ways.

A device, such as a saw, used to perform or facilitate manual or mechanical work.
-Fair enough, but that's not what we're looking for.

Vulgar Slang. A penis.
Wow, that came out of nowhere. But again, not what we want.

I'll head over to "Urban" to get a more ethnic response.

One who lacks the mental capacity to know he is being used. A fool. A cretin. Characterized by low intelligence and/or self-steem.
-Not bad, but again, it's not tickling me where it should.

someone who tries too hard. a poser. one of those chic's who holds the sign saying "Carson Daly is Hot." the asstard who goes to a rock show because they heard one of the songs on the radio or mtv. or someone who insists on wearing velour sweat suits. Avril Lavigne.
-Aah, there it is. Scratched me right in the sack. That is how I define "tool". The example given also helps enforce what I'm trying to display.

"Jane is a tool because she dresses like Avril Lavigne while listening to New Found Glory and Dashboard Confessional just becuase Carson Daly told her to."

A+ answer. Now that we're all on the same page, allow me to elaborate.

Tonight I politely graced the movie theater with my presence, viewing the moving picture, "War of the Worlds". Upon exiting the theater, I spotted a horse. I don't know what a horse was doing at a movie theater, but he was enjoying himself, and his popcorn so I left him alone. When looking past the horse, I spotted a tool. That's right, a tool. Allow me to describe this asshat.

First of all, we were inside. This wasn't a drive in movie. We were in a closed area, completely safe from sunlight. The theater was very dark. He still found it necessary to wear a hat. Maybe he has cancer and is embarrased by his Q-ball head. I didn't ask, but it looked like he had a, very goofy looking, head of hair. I didn't see what the hat was advertising, because he had it tilted so far up I'm surprised he fit through the doorway.

The next thing I noticed on his was a collared shirt. Fair game, maybe he just played golf. But what disturbed me was, yes, his collar was...popped. As in "flipped-up for no reason". WHY?! I honestly do not understand this fascination with the popped collar. It accomplises nothing. Maybe he was sitting in front of an escaped convict, and he needed the extra protection around his neck incase of falling victim to an attack from behind. Or he probably just thought he was really, really cool. Maybe he just did it to impress people. Maybe he didn't want the guy at the food stand to take a dump in his popcorn again, so he had to look sharp. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him.

I walked past the tool, imagining what other cool activities he's probably going to partake in this evening. Maybe bungie jump. Rob a Wendy's. Have a carcass eating contest with his buds. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him.

If you read that and don't comment, I'll make you eat a ping pong paddle. Without chewing. I'm sorry, but I'll have to.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

11:12am. I should be asleep now. But no, I had to get up at 9am. 9 in the morning. Getting up at 9 when you go to sleep at 3 is no good. But I had to, and I did. "For what?" you may be asking. "For an orthodontist appointment" is how I would respond. I know several of you are familiar with orthodontists, maybe you've even seen one. Well if you haven't I can assure you they provide no fun.

The Ancient Chinese Torturer, or "orthodontist", I visit goes by the name of Dr. Awbrey. On the sign outside the door of his new office I visited today it said "Specialist in orthodontics". You're not a "specialist", pal, you're an orthodontist. Stop thinking you're so cool. When I opened the door to the new office, I was greeted with something that did not sit well with me. In front of the door was a table with a fancy computer on it. All the computer was showing was a list of names, one being mine. The lady behind the counter told me to "turn the wheel, and click it in on my name". What?! The only reason this computer is here is so I can announce I am present? What about a pad of paper, that may save you a few thousand dollars. But no, Dr. Awbrey is far too cool for paper. He actually wipes himself with metal. Contuning the tale, I turned this "wheel" they had instead of a normal mouse and "clicked" it in on my name. I wasn't as impressed as they wanted me to be.

I then took a seat in the waiting room. The design of this room disturbed me. All of the chairs were bunched in a small area, most facing each other. Did they expect us to come here with a pack of 15 friends? Am I supposed to meet new people here and discuss politics? Not at 10am I won't. So I found a seat near a far corner, trying to ignore everyone, and ignore the cries for attention this office was making.

I calmly sat with my eyes closed until they called my name. "Matthew", they said. Excuse me? Do you know how many Matthew's there are? A last name would help, sister. I don't personally know you, so please don't act like we grew up together. I sat dumbfounded for several moments, until I finally gave in and stood up. I guess they were calling me.

I followed this girl taking me into the back room, and there was another teenage gal in front of me, her name also called. The two gals seemed awfully friendly, discussing how their Summers have been, as I walked half asleep and with my eyes half closed to the chair. While sitting in the chair, I noticed possibly the most unnecessary item I have ever seen. Upon the lady leaning my chair back, I saw on the ceiling, a television. Excuse me? Is this some sort of a joke? An elaborate scheme? What point is a television here? I'll be sitting here for 15 minutes, most of those spent with someones hands in my mouth. I tried to ignore the film selection of the morning "Harry Potter", and closed my eyes yet again.

In the chair next to me was the friendly teenage gal, and the lady who led us back. The gal was getting her braces tightened, so she needed a new color. She selected black. Upon this selection, the lady operating on her was offended. She tried to pursuede her to choose something like pink, light blue, or green. What? Christ lady, let her pick a color, please don't try to push some ridiculous color that makes it look like you're perpetually eating candy. She finally agreed to her selection with a sigh, and continued.

When she was done with her, about 15 minutes later, she came and saw me. She asked if I brought my retainer. "No." She asked if I wear it at night. "Yes", I told her, obviously lying so I would dodge a lecture. Her next question shocked me.
"When did you get your braces off?"
"Uhh....December", I responded still half asleep.
"Of this year?"
WHAT?! It is June of the year 2005. Meaning the months that have passed are: January, February, March, April, and May. Nowhere in those is December. Therefore there has been no December in this year. I didn't want to confuse her and make her head explode, so I said ".....yeah". She left for another 10 minutes.

Next the ringleader of this operation, the pimp Dr. Awbrey, came out. And by no means by "pimp" do I mean anything positive like "cool" or "hip". I mean he offers women to perform sexual favors in exchange for money. There is not a single other penis in the entire building except him. So, the leader of this whorehouse came out to see me. He told me to open my mouth. Fair game, I did it. He put a mirror in and told me to bite down, I agreed. What he told me shocked me more than anything I had heard all day.
"These teeth look sweet."
WHAT?! "Sweet"?! "Sweet" is possibly the least appropriate reaction to teeth you could have. They are teeth. Plain teeth. How excited can they make you? Perhaps "These teeth look straight", or "These teeth look good" would have worked. But no, not cool enough for Dr. Awbrey, the coolest orthodontist in town. I guess he's an orthodontist so he gets off that kind of stuff. He then pulled his instrument of death out of my mouth and left. So that was it? I wait 10 minutes in the waiting room, then another 20 in this chair, all so you can poke a mirror around my mouth for 15 seconds?! I just wanted to leave, so I said a quick "Can I leave?" to the lady, who didn't respond. I got out of the chair and left.

Comments keep me going like babies for someone who eats babies.

Monday, June 27, 2005

I regret to inform you that there will be no entry tonight. I'm sorry, but I can't be out rescuing endangered pandas every day. Everything I do is not blog-worthy. Not daily do I parachute into poverty-stricken cities, and free the townspeople from their tyrannical leader. Not every day do I lead a band of rogues deep into the forests of South America to raid the tribal camps of the Amozonians. That only happened once, and you can purchase the book I wrote about those events at your local bookstore. But the book is published under the alias "Lance McCalisballs".

For all of you people who yell at me with vicious threats like "wHen Is tHE NeW bL0G enTRy c0/\/\InG?" please hold yourself back. I will let you, the reader, know when there is a new post because I'm that nice. That's my contribution to you. In fact if you do ask, expect to be smacked in the face with my penis and select portions of my scrotum. I'm sorry, but it's a measure I am forced to take.

So there won't be an enrty tonight. It's tough running a daily world-class blog that was commented on in the New York Times. I get letters by the truckload almost daily from fans and mothers of sons they have lost because they went on a multi-continental search for the scribe of this very blog. I have received several body parts in the mail from obsessed fans, many of the parts getitalia. I am often mobbed in public by, sometimes rabid, fans. Once a middle-aged man dove on me, completely nude, from the second floor of the mall. I stopped engaging in cyber-sex with him after that.

So there, I'm sorry, there won't be an enrty. Or maybe I just wrote one, that's up to you...

If you read that and do not comment, I will hunt you down, and in thirty years, eat your first born son. I apologize in advance, but it's what I am forced to do.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Saturday. The last day of the week. Depending on your calendar, but I won't get into that. Today wasn't bad. It was good, very good. In fact it was fantastic. I won't go further, because I allow myself a maximum of six adjectives in a paragraph.

Today. Today was host to a double feature film marathon, starring Matt and Daniel (you can, and please do it's very good, read Daniel's portrayal of the day here: The films viewed in their entirety were "Howl's Moving Castle" and "Land of the Dead". Both good, numerous thumbs are up. A few things happened while viewing these moving pictures. Allow me to start at the beginning...

I wake up. 11 o'clock. Dash up from the basement to the computer because I was threatend with violent acts of beastiality, and other fetishes if I did not squirt another of these blog entry's out of my mouth. If you would like to read that entry, please use your mouse. I wrote it and arranged plans for these motion pictures, or "talkies".

The schedule was the first film, 4:10pm, followed by an elaborate candle-lit dinner for two at Burger King, wandering around not only Barnes but Noble as well, and then the second film at 7:45. During the first film, "Howl's Moving Castle", some child/animal inside could not control himself.

I do not know if he was mindlessly beating his feet against the ground, thinking he was standing on a drum set, or if he was running a race but both are equally innapropriate behavoir in a theater made for movies. Maybe he had too much sugar, or was trying to make a run for it from his parents who don't give him dessert if he doesn't was the car fast enough. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him. He seemed to stop after a few minutes, maybe his parents finally smuthered him.

After that film, the destination was Burger King. But getting there wasn't without obstacles. As soon as we enter the parking lot, we are unpleasently greeted by an obese, greasy, African-American man leaning on to his trunk, seemingly passed out. His grimy attempt at dreadlocks made me jealous. As we pass, his head turns up. Oh no. He makes eye contact us as we try as hard as we can to continue walking to the restaraunt we had made reservations at just hours before. As we continue walking, his lips begin to quiver as saliva shoots out, sprinkler style.
"Can you guys help me out withthisifhf"

At this point, myself and Daniel were kissing our un-tampered with rectums goodbye. We knew we were going to come out different men. We both imagined each other tied up in his trunk, being taken to his far away bungalo where he would have his way with us one, then two, at a time. We did not want this to happen. We continued taking slow, considered steps, trying to break his death stare.

"Can you guys help me out? I need some money for gas."

Aaah, of course. It would have been silly of me to remove my pants and enter the back seat of his car as I almost did, giving up.

"Umm... sorry man, I think I only have enough money for food", I said, obviously lying to the man.

"Alright, thanks" He says.

Relieved, we enter the dining establishment and enjoyed our double cheesburgers and Hi-C fruit punch.

When we left the King of Burgers' House, we were shocked to find the mystery man, and his car, were gone. Did this mean he had gas all along? Was he trying to steal my cold cash? Ridiculous I thought. And to think I was about to be assaulted by him...

During the next feature film, "Land of the Dead", the audience member seated directly in front of me didn't seem to know what she wanted. Allow me to describe her first.Throughout the entire movie I was under the impression it was a six year old girl. Turns out she was between 50 and 80. Close enough. She was at the theater with two of her pals it seemed, one male, the other female. She was wearing a visor, I do not know why, we were inside. Inside a very dark room. But I didn't ask. Here is what disturbed me about her behavoir. During a particular moment that scared her, she began clapping. Just two claps. It sounded very out of place, I'm sure she stopped at two due to embarassment. Here's the problem. She also clapped during a scene that made her laugh. The last time I checked, having the same reaction to events that both humorously entertain you and frieghten you causes you to be a serial killer. I'm sorry, it does. When I came to this conclusion, I realized I took a big risk sitting behind her. I also realized she was the accomplise of the Burger King theif. The fact that myself and my companion alluded both challengers still shocks me.

If you read that and don't comment I'll kidnap you. Simple as that, I'll kidnap you.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

I couldn't make an entry last night because I was writing/directing/producing/starring in a pornographic film. I apologize. As a reward for being so patient I will include the script to the film, Dirty Backdoor Debutaunts 34- Triple A: Asian Anal Adventures.


"So, we're all..."

*Doorbell sounds*
"Did you...?"

*Answers Door*
"Hey, we didn't order a... Do you want to..."

The End.

It will be on shelves September 28th.

A few nights ago I had a confrontation with my cellular telophone. I'm sure you've read of my brother sleeping on the couch, if not you are allowed to scroll down. Well, being the curteous person I am, I turned out the lights, and was trying to use my cellular telephone to light the way up the stairs. I don't know why, but the phone did not feel like cooperating. As soon as I open it, it yells, "PLEASE ENTER A COMMAND." Excuse me? I do not want to issue any commands at 2:30am . I did not even hit the "Driving Mode" button. Which serves no purpose. If you have to press a special button, and then tell the phone what to do while you're driving, instead of pressing the buttons, you should not be in a car. Not even as a passenger. The only car you should ever ride in is the one transporting you, inside of your cage, to a small island on the souther border of Haiti, for you to die on. Continuing my story, I still needed light to navigate my way up the stairs, because tripping and knocking over a table, that would then fall down the stairs with me isn't much of a good time. So I open the phone again. "PLEASE ENTER A COMMAND". "I am going to eat you", I commanded. That command was not recognized. I made my way up the stairs, by use of my cat like senses. I got to my room, threw my phone on my bed in a fit or rage and slept comfortably, next to a giraffe.

Last night I was unfortunate enough to view the motion picture, "Cursed". I'm not going to tell you how terrible it was, feel free to rent it. But I will tell you of some oddities I found. The film is about warewolves. Standard fare. While at a "happenin'" party, the warewolf strikes. The first strike occurs in a "Maze of Mirrors". Do these mazes/rooms/houses/bungalos of mirrors ever exist outside of horror movies? No, they don't. Because seeing yourself twenty times in the same room would drive you to eat all of yourself out of confusion. It's happened. Anyways, the warewolf jumps completely out of nowhere, through a wall and into this maze. I don't know how the warewolf got there, maybe a motorcycle.
My other disturbance, that I will tell you of, was when this warewolf was hiding in the rafters of the party. Fair game, the warewolf is going stealthy. Someone is walking under, and out of nowhere, the warewolf hand shoots out of the ceiling, and picks him up. Ridiculous. Since when are warewolves ceiling crawling ninjas? Do they all train in Japan for several centuries before strinking southern California? I wouldn't know, I've only written two books on warewolves.

After the credits rolled, the popular MTV program "Date my Mom" came on. Wow. And I thought the guy at Subway was a tool. But the popped-collar wearing, "jive-talkin'" "hipsters" aren't the worst part, even if they utter plays-on-words like "Show me tha' Honey". The gals on this show are ridiculous. All they do is tell their mothers to lie about them. Look, ladies, please, if I am on an intimate date with your mother, please allow her to tell me you have a dead siamese twin attached to your head. I don't want to find out you are a Wolf-Person with hair covering your entire body later on. Finding out you have a penis or two isn't a welcome surprise. Why isn't there a "Date my Dad"? That would be much better.

Boy and Dad eating steak at dinner.
*20 minute silence*
*Boy looks up, makes eye contact for less than a second*
"You touch my daughter... Look at me boy, look at me. You touch my daughter; I eat you"
*A 35 minute pause, the two exit*

If you read that and do not comment, I have no problem eating your face.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Another night, another post. My brother is currently asleep on the couch behind me. I have a steak on the grill that I will be eating off his face in 20 minutes. Some events happened today, allow me to explain them.

First, I watched the end of the basketball game last night, and was disturbed with the soundtrack selection. There needs to be a ban on Queen songs from sporting events.We know that you were under pressure, and we also know that you are the champions. And everyone knows you love fat bottomed girls. Wait, actually that song wasn't played. But the amount of Queen at sporting events is ridiculous. Thought I would let you know about that.

My next tale starts in one place, and ends up in another. Allow me to start at the beginning, as I always do. I'm sure you read of my poster dilemma in a previous entry. If not, I won't recap for you, because no one is stopping you from scrolling down. Well after requesting my replacement poster, the seller said he sent my the replacement and included a "surprise for my trouble". This both excited and scared me. Turns out the surprise was yet anther movie poster, this one for "National Treasure". Not bad, but it wasn't as exotic a prize as I was hoping for. I was expecting a couple of severed fingers. Perhaps a pint of human blood. A penis. Maybe a white piece of paper with "Don't screw with me" written on it in blood and other bodily fluids. But I'll take the poster. Now that I had these fancy movie posters, I needed something to frame them with. Perhaps a frame.

My journey then took me nearly from Atlanta to Asia. I went to the store Michael's. Micahel's. Wow, what a store. I do not think a more boring store could be created. I would rather go to a morgue and have a body-eating race with a fierce opponent. But I went to Michael's. As myself and my trusty companion, Mother, strolled through the aisles, I was shocked with how bored I had become in less than two minutes. We entered the picture frame section of the store, one of the more exciting departments. As I browsed, I could not find the right size. None were big enough. Then I left the condom section, and went back to the frame department. Only one frame was the correct size, and based on my knowledge of frames, it was a crappy frame. A lady who worked there was near. My mother alerted her of our problem, and asked if she knew if they had any others of that size. Her response shocked me. I was expecting her to go near the frames, and begin browsing, telling us if she found any that were up to my standard. No, her response was "No, none but the black, cardboard backed one.". WHAT?! We weren't even near the frame, and I do no think she was using a periscope, so there's no way she could have been looking at it. She then continued "Yeah, just the $24.99 one." She also knows the prices?! Excuse me? Does she do nothing all day but memorize the styles and prices of picture frames? I guess that's about as much fun as there is to be had working at Michael's.

Well, my steak is done, and I have to prepare my ice cream sundae, to eat both off of my brother's face.

Comments will be exchanged for "favors".

Thursday, June 23, 2005

It's 2am and I figured I was due for another entry. Where to begin? Well, today I noticed some occurances that pissed me off. Allow me to start at the begining...

It was 1pm, yesterday afternoon. Myself and my brother figured it was about time for a lunch. We decided Subway would be serving us today. We boarded the MattMobile, and buckled up. I inserted a compact disc, Audioslave's latest. The tunes were blaring, bass was thumping, and the man in the back seat wasn't flailing around anymore. Finally. So we drove to the nearest Subway location, meandered around the parking lot, until I spotted a hispanic man being beaten by the police. Then I saw something that angered me: A Hummer.

Personally, I do not care for the automobile known as a "Hummer", or it's more popular sequel, the "H2". Perhaps the assumed "Hummer 2" title wasn't cool enough for the people who would purchase these. I don't know. I don't just dislike "Hummers", I hate them. I really hate them. If I stumbled upon a treasure chest full of guns and amunition, I would probably shoot a few select people, commit numerous acts of armed robbery, and then would assassinate the people responsible for the "Hummer".

Really, do "Hummer's" serve any purpose? If you're browsing the arctic tundra, or excavating an ancient Egyptian tomb, feel free to use the Hummer. Maybe you have to transport several hurt seal to another zoo, because the Depression hit Sparta Zoo too hard. But if you're picking up groceries or chauffeurring two or three children to soccer practice, please choose a different automobile. It's not necessary. I think a standard Honda will perform the same task just as well, and you won't run over any people unintentionally with a Honda. Can you even see out the windshield of a Hummer? Does a ladder slide down so you can enter the cockpit? Can you even drive it over bridges without the bridge collapsing?

Well, I continued walking past the Hummer, thinking my troubles were over. I walked into the Subway, took my stance in line, and patientally waited my turn. I then placed my order, as did my brother. Then, guess who walks in? A Tool. That's right a tool walked in. Allow me to describe this douche-extradonaire for you. First of all, his nose shocked me. It looked like he got hit in the nose with a baseball, his nose was flattened and has remained like so since. I actually felt bad, knowing he was probably missing out on the wonderful smells of Subway. I doubt he can even breathe through it. His nostrils were small slits, looking like staples. Enough about his nose. His pants. First of all, he was wearing pants. If I recall correctly, it was June the 22nd, in Alpharetta, Georgia. The temperature was somewhere in the range of 80-110. Pants were certanily not necessary. But he though so. The pants were of the blue jean variety, with holes all about them. If you purchase pants, with holes in them, you do not know how to spend money properly. And probably shouldn't be within 50 feet of children under the age of 10. Next, this tool had a collared shirt on, and his collar was, yes, popped. I was taken aback by this sight. I had only heard stories. I didn't know tools of this degree actually existed. I don't understand the popped collar. Perhaps this tool has a blood disorder, where he is very cold all the time, so he needed the pants, and the collar kept his neck warm. Maybe he doesn't receive the oxygen he needs, because of his deformed nose, and this makes him cold. I wouldn't know, I didn't ask him. He probably would have only used slang terms in his sentence, so it probably wasn't worth talking to him anyways.

It's 2:35am, and flights to Europe won't wait on me, so I must be leaving.

Comments are appreciated.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

You know what pisses me off?

The Real World.

Seriously, not many other things can piss me off that much in a 20 minute period. I watched the season premiere to "Real World: Austin" earlier tonight, and it succededed in making me want to physically harm the cast members. Now, I do hate "The Real World" (all seasons and casts), yet I have seen every episode in the last four years, and several from previous seasons. Don't ask why, the show is captivating. Even though I hate it. I think everyone in the enitre world has sat through at least one "Real World" marathon for several hours. I won't deny that. Well this season, I can tell I hate everyone on it. Seriously, these people are everything I hate in a person. I'll get into detail about the individual people later.

I don't even know where to begin. I was driven to such anger after watching that epsiode. I even took a page of notes, so I could remember all the specific things that pissed me off.

First of all, all these people want to do is have sex. Honestly, let's stop for two hours, guys. The enitre basis of the "Real World" series is for people to be in a house with 6 other people, and be engaged in a three month orgy. C'mon, guys, your penis can only take so much. Really. You're going to hurt yourselves.

Next, nearly all of the guys on the show act like they're the biggest ladies men of all time, yet they can't keep their hands off each other. When two of the cast members made a bet with each other, who could "hook-up" with a house-mate first, they shook hands and hugged each other more than 5 times. I don't see how they could be talking about having sex with a woman, while they were practically bending over and spreading their cheeks.

Speaking of the term "hook-up", it seems like that word (or two) is said at least once per sentence. I wouldn't be surprised if the cast mates were electrically shocked in the nipples, via remote, if they forget to mantion "hooking-up" often enough.

On the first night of entering the house, while the cast-mates were trying to "hook-up", I saw one guy and one gal chasing each other around the house trying to whip each other with a towel. I would have been very happy to see one, or both, of them slip on the tile floor of the bathroom and die. Seriously, I would have sent a check for $250 to the member of the pair who remained alive, for killing the other.

Another disturbance I had was people wearing t-shirts that are supposed to be funny. Seriously does anyone laugh at shirts? I saw two seperate ones, one saying "I say hella". Thank you. I now know a slang term is present in your vocabulary. I'll keep that in mind. The other shirt said "Time flies when you're having rum". I have not consumed rum, but I'm near positive time moves at the same speed, no matter what you're drinking. If it is a play on words of the phrase "Time flies when you're having fun", then it's not funny. I'm sorry, it just isn't.

Speaking of alcohol, one girl claimed "Hard alcohol brings out my bad side". Well, I think I have a remedy for that. Don't drink hard alcohol. Idiot. Don't say terrible things happen when you get drunk, while drinking an alcoholic beverage. I'll drown you in hard alcohol. The same girl, alerted the black guy of the show to calm her down if she gets drunk, and keep her from getting too drunk. The black man agreed. While the whole gang was out drinking, the girl was getting drunk. The black guy thought to step in, except he was a solid two hours too late. The moron let her get insanely drunk, then thought he would offer her a cold glass of water. That will solve everything. A brawl ensued, and the black man left. Perhaps the smell of Popeyes was in the air.

Speaking of the black guy, and don't get me wrong, I have nothing at all against black people. Just this guys is on "The Real World" so I have an excuse to hate him. While he walked away from the drunk girl, he was such a bad ass, he chose a path what was out of his way, and walked between people posing for a picture, and the person taking the picture. Seriously, what kind of dick does that? Another thing against this man is while the posse was out dancing, he was so cool, he had to say "No one could dance. Except me." Thanks pal. So because you're black you can dance incredibly well? Cool, so I can say that you love fried chicken more than you love your father, and you wouldn't be offended? Alright, I'll make note of that. One more thing about the black guy, while having a "deep" conversation with the drunk chick, he had the nerve to say "Now that I'm older, I don't want to fight. More peace." Thanks, Ghandi. You're so deep. What are you doing on "The Real World"? Shouldn't you be out feeding the hungry or donating blood? Seriously, give Bono a call and you can help him save Africa. Go for it. You are a modern day Mother Teresa.

Speaking of "Mother Teresa's", one of the attention whore girls claimed to be a nurse, after a guy got punched in the face for being a loud-mouthed moron. She looked at his bruise, and was quick to say "Let me look, I'm a nurse". Wow, thanks, Betty. If I want quality healthcare, I know the best can be found on "The Real World". If I ever get hurt, the first person I'll call is that chick I saw getting drunk and practicing fellatio on a horse from "The Real World".

Look at that motley crew of morons. Looks like the people who watch MTV.

That's all for now from me.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Today wasn't bad, so I'll review what I did for you.

Shower- Started out a bit rocky, but eventually evened itself out. Upon first entering, the water was too hot. After adjusting the temperature, I found the water to be too cold. I fiddled with it for a solid 10 minutes, until the man who works inside my water heater decided to stop punishing me. The rest of my bathing went as planned, overall a good experience. 7/10

Trip to the post office/Poster story- Allow me to start at the beginning. Roughly a week ago, I purchased a nice looking movie poster for The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.

I paid $10 for it, with an additional $10 spent on shipping. Upon receiving the poster last Saturday, I was greeted with the ugly sight of a mangled shipping tube. There was a huge dent right on the side of the tube, as if at the United States Postal Service's annual softball game, Terry forgot to bring the bat, so they used the nearest tube. That tube was mine. I removed the poster and found it littered with dents and tears of various degrees. I could not stand for this, and the seller claimed to purchase shipping insurance, so I was off to the Post Office.

Upon entering the post office, I was greeted with a shocking smell. No matter how many times I enter that post office, the startling smell of cleanliness will never cease to surprise me. I waited for just a moment, before the kind man behind the counter waved me over. Like he owns me. I explained the story to him, as he inspected the package. Turns out the seller in fact did not apply proper shipping insurance. I pumped my fist in the air and uttered a "Why I Aughtta!". While getting odd stares, and watching women shield their children, I exited the Post Office. I was mad.

When I got home, I immediatley mounted my seat at the computer. This seller was getting an angry email, whether he wanted it or not. I emailed him, and he responded. Apparently he did insure the package, but through a different service. Odd, I thought. I sent him pictures of the ruined memorobilia, and he has promised to issue me a replacement. So in the end, everything worked out.
Poster 10/10
Damaged Poster 3/10
Post Office 7/10
Seller of poster 9/10

Movie- Batman Returns - I watched the film, Batman Returns, while in the car, as my mother shopped for fake flowers. The film wasn't great, yet wasn't bad. It improved on the pacing and editing issues of the first Batman film, yet still had its own problems. Burton's signature dark style still echoed through, and the direction was great. One main problem, was the climax of the film. It was rather anti-climactic. Batman, THE Batman, is fighting one-on-one against The Penguin. The Penguin is a 4 foot tall, morbidly obese creature, who wears a stained one-piece sock. The idea of him putting up a fight is laughable, and their confrontation only lasted a few minutes. But issues aside, it was a fun film. 7/10

Dinner- My mother, brother, and myself dined last evening at Chili's. Upon entering, we were horrifyingly greeted by a horse-woman. "She" is honestly one of the oddest looking "people" I have ever had the misfortune of encoutering. I don't want to go into detail, but I would rather fornicate with a horse than get within 10 feet of this beast. I ordered the "Boneless Shanghai Wings", my usual. I requested no sesame seeds, as they hurt my teeth and ultimately serve no purpose. They were alright, but getting old.
Without the Horse-Woman leading me to my table 7/10
With the Horse-Woman leading me to my table 2/10 Order- is having it's bi-annual 20% off sale. I went B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Their prices are already very good, and this deal is adding sugar to a pizza. Or sugar to a...nevermind. I ordered $182 worth of items.

-------- ------------ ----------------------------------- ---------- ---------
PRINCESS MONONOKE $ 13.39 Backorder
PORCO ROSSO $ 16.91 Backorder
EQUILIBRIUM $ 11.04 Backorder
SIMPSONS-5TH SEASON $ 27.91 Backorder
DARK CITY $ 4.47 In-stock
HOME MOVIES-2ND SEASON $ 16.74 In-stock
BATMAN THE ANIMATED SERIES Vol. 1 $ 26.49 Backorder

Merchandise Total: $ 182.10
Tax: $ .00
Shipping & Handling: $ .00

Total for this Order: $ 182.10

That concludes my day.

As a special treat for you, I'm including a link to my dear friend Daniel's song he recorded. Eventually it will turn in to our hour long symphony "The Bodily Functions Song".Here is the link. Enjoy.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Am I really making a blog? Damn. I told myself I would never make one. But at least it's not a "Xanga". You girls and your Xangas... Does even allow you to sign up if you have a scrotum? They shouldn't.

Well I won't be posting the usual ingredients of a child's blog, such as "OMG! liek t0day wuz soooooooo much fun! we liEk weNt to the p00l and sAw EVERYONE! it was Awesome!! weVe gotta hang out more!! <3!" No. You know why? Because I'm not an autistic three year old with downs, who's typing with a hook hand. I can control myself. When I see a keyboard I don't immediatley start slapping the keys like a retarted child on a piano who thinks he's making beautiful music. When I see a computer I don't immediatley tear off all my clothing, dive on the desk and begin flaling around. No. I don't. Because I can control myself. Honeslty, most blogs look like they were typed by someone who's hands have Turrette's. Ridiculous.

Most blogs are completely useless. Honestly, I personally don't care that your best friend came over and you two made cookies. I don't care about you going shopping. I don't care that you watched "The Notebook". I don't care that you killed that guy who gave you back wrong change with your hot dog.

Also, what moron cam up with these "Xanga Layouts"? Have any of you noticed more than half of the time you can't read anything on the page, because the brilliant mind who writes that blog decided white text would look good on a white background? Ridiculous.

But you kids can do what you want. I've lost my pride, I now run a blog.