Friday, November 11, 2005

How I totally fabricated a test

Earlier today myself and my friend, whom I shall refer to as Short-Round for humorous purposes, made plans to go see the movie "Capote" which has recently come out in theaters. However, the movie was only showing in a dinky little theater all the way across town and was going to be only showing once, which made our time considerably constrained. Being that Short-Round was the only one who had a car, I was pretty much stuck with him, and we decided that to just make things easier I would go to his last class with him and sit in the back and study while he and his professor and the rest of the class, did their thing.

What he neglected to tell me, however, was that that day was a test day. So there I was in a totally strange class room for a totally strange class being handed a test on Montesquieu’s Spirit of the Laws.

Suddenly, I was torn. I could either read the rest of Barry Unsworth’s Morality Play, the novel I was supposed to be reading, or I could amuse myself by fabricating erroneous and highly indecent answers to questions about government ideology, and then hand the test in to an innocent TA.

My course was clear. It was time to take out the bullshitting machine, and crank her up yet again.

My friend has supplied me with the two essay questions on the test, since they were given to the students several days ahead of time. I, of course, answered both, because I am flashy and cool and I just gots to let all the ladies know. All the answers I’m transcribing here are from memory, since what’s the point of fucking up a test and then not handing it in?

I took the test in my hands, licked my lips, and began writing and giggling feverishly, as though the muse herself (or more likely the muse’s sweetly retarded sister) took hold of me. I was so inspired in my writing that I’m surprised my eyes didn’t bleed, because that happens from time to time, especially if I’ve been drinking or punched about the eyes by large men.
Name: Fredric "Spanky" Turpington III
Date: Boobums
TA: The correct spelling is "TnA"

1. What are the distinctive principles and natures of Montesquieu’s historical governments – those being monarchical, despotic, and republican, both aristocratic and democratic?

To answer this question we must first look at Montesquieu’s history as he appears in Norse and Persian mythology. Montesquieu was the distant nephew of Yurtle "the Tertle" the Turtle, ancient destroyer of worlds and children’s toys, whose nefarious exploits are recorded in the two epics "Yertle the Tertle Murdles a Frankenfertle Hurtle," and "The Zodiac Killer: The Unstoppable Bloodlust of Yertle the Turtle." The spellings of "turtle" vary depending on whether or not you know how to spell the word turtle. In these long stories, sometimes reaching up to fourteen pages in length, Yurtle the Turtle is described as being the sworn enemy of both Fran Drescher, who laughs like a loon full of helium, and the greater metropolitan area of Chicago, which may or may not have something to do with loons. He is probably the most famous of turtles, except possibly for the one in the Tootsie Roll Pop commercial, which is actually a load of shit, because only a moron licks a candy that is clearly designed for sucking. A good way to see if someone is intelligent or not is to given them a Tootsie Roll Pop and see if they lick it. If they do, you are legally required (by the law) to murder them with a ball peen hammer, even if they’re in the tub or on the potty. This is the foundation for all civilization, which is probably something Montesquieu talks about or mentions in passing.

Montesquieu, having inherited these traits, went on to develop reason, which was unforeseen by scientists at the time, mostly cause they couldn’t figure shit out. Before reason, the way arguments were determined was by striking your opponent repeatedly about the head with a sharp or blunt object, and seeing if he bleeds or stops breathing. If he does, he is wrong, and may have to drink depending on if you are playing a drinking game. The preceding idea is stolen directly from a catoon tv show and I think it’s downright hilarious.

Reason can be observed by taking facts and then saying stuff about them. For instance, we shall take the example of my dog (for instance) whose name is Gus, who is small and shaped like a weiner, which is funny. I sometimes call him "EsophaGus" and "Augustus Caesar," or even "wigglefloppyponypup" if I have been up to some serious drinking. (for instance!) This is what reason is:

Fact 1: Gus is small.
Fact 2: He is a small dog.
Conclusion: There is no God.

Rousseau invented this and because of it I bet he got more ass than a warehouse full of toilet seats, or tampons, or even rapists, which is really saying something because I bet those rapists would be very upset for being pent up in a warehouse all day and would vent their anger through more rape. This is a bad thing unless you dress them up as clowns in which case it is also terrifying.

In conclusion, sometimes when I buy a bottle of poteen and sit around drinking it I usually wind up drawing pictures of turtles on my body with a knife using blood as ink. This makes serious sense to me. You can even use your nipples for the eyes of the turtles, and that way you can always see if someone is sneaking up on you from the front, which is pretty tricky, because you’d naturally be thinking they’d sneak up on you from the back. This is one of the foundations of society. Montesquieu.

2. What are the ways in which the spread of international commerce alters the character of international relations, specifically religion? Cite Montesquieu’s references.

The spread of international commerce is very much like the spread of other things, like peanut butter, but not the crunchy kind. When my brother was four he couldn’t eat anything with peanuts because he’d throw up all over the place and then I’d jump up and point at him and say SURVEY SAYS YOU’RE A FAG! This would make mom cry and she would lock herself in the car and we’d have to make dinner for ourselves (but not with peanut butter)

International commerce is done in the following ways.

1. Nation A sneaks knowing looks at Nation B from across the room. Nation B flutters her eyelashes, which are very pretty.
2. Nation A makes up lies about how cute Nation B’s shoes are, even if they’re stupid and ugly and she has the fashion taste of a syphilitic lobster ass.
4. Nation B says things like "I love you" which is fancy talk for "sex with you is okay and I like the stuff you own." Liking the stuff she owns is important, because eventually women, who already hate sex, will eventually begin to hate it more and more. This is because God hates you, personally. Her stuff will not get old and if it’s like all the David Bowie albums ever made then that’s pretty sweet.
5. Nation B is robbed and left for dead in a ditch
6. Nation C comes along and finds Nation B from her weak cries for help

Religions are okay with this so long as they get to wear funny hats. If they are not allowed to do this they will get very upset and you’ll be in trouble, even more than when I showed up at my church’s annual easter egg hunt and I told all the kids that Jesus had laid all those eggs himself. I have never seen fat women so irate. This did not help when in retaliation I began to loudly sing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" but with liberal usage of the words "cuntshit" and "rat tits." This is a foundation of society.

My conclusion can be seen in this graph ([i]which I drew for no reason[/i]):
It can be seen here:

In conclusion, Montesquieu is hard to spell.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

How I Met Josh Brewster

In the Fall of 2004 I signed up for what was called the "Liberal Arts Committee," a collegiate organization of Liberal Arts students devoted to campus projects and school-wide events in order to distract themselves from the fact that they have no useful skills to offer society whatsoever. Or at least, that was the pretense. At the time I was an idealistic young man who foolishly thought that, maybe, with the right effort, courage, and willingness to engage in devious acts on the most nefarious of levels, I would be able to maybe, just maybe, plant the seeds of my future into the fertile manure of college, and water it with daily with the fluid of dreams until it sprouted into the growth of promise, after which it would mature into leaves of success which could be smoked by the bong of retirement, and LAC seemed like just the shitty star to hitch my shitty wagon to. For you see, words like "committee" look good on a resume (or as the French call it, "the el resume"), and if you follow Dungeons and Dragons rules, add + 4 to credibility and charisma. But then again, words like "liberal" and "arts" both subtract 3 points from reknown. But then you would be forgetting that the involvement the Liberal Arts Committee has with the Student Government adds a whopping +3 to all Universal Saving Throws. In the end, everything balances out, provided you have a respectable strength modifier and shower regularly.

Sadly, I was mistaken. LAC was not about engaging in campus events to distract ourselves from our painfully, painfully obivous worthlessness. Rather, it was a committee set up to [i]talk[/i] about distracting ourselves from our worthlessness, and then make petty compromises about the most mundane and ridiculous of topics. Sometimes I wasn't even sure who people were arguing with. Sometimes they were arguing with themselves, making deals with their own self-worth, reducing such activites as fixing up homes for the elderly and poor to simply driving by the homes of the elderly and poor at a very high rate, and then maybe donating some petty cash to a small and dysfunctional charity, such as Debtor's Anonymous or The Molested Parrot Shelter of Greater Ohio, which would also be a pretty good band name.

Now, I am not an idealist, even though I just told you I was. That was a bold-faced lie. I also told you I was "young" and a "man," and I think I might've said thrown something in there about being the Herald of the Rapture, too. But, regardless, the truth is, I am not a determined, idealistic person. No, these here hands have spilled blood in every state from Colorado to Connecticut; sometimes my own, sometimes other people's, sometimes a mix of the two in what the Eutaw, Alabama Daily Times called "easily the most repulsive Easter Sunday in American history." But, still, I would much rather do something than just sit on my ass talking about how I should be doing something, or sit on my ass talking about how I am sitting on my ass and scheduling later hours to come in and sit on my ass and talk about doing something, which was usually the case. But that was exactly what we did all day, or at least what we were supposed to be doing. I mainly sat in the back of the room drawing pictures of monkeys in cowboy hats engaging in ruthless knife fights with pirates. If there's one thing those pictures taught me, it's never to trust a monkey who's skilled with a knife. Or a pirate. They truly are the scum of the earth. Also, cowboy hats are funny, especially if you add a jaunty feather.

So, towards the end of the Fall semester, I was disillusioned with the promise of success LAC had promised me. The whole thing just didn't look right to me anymore. Maybe it was the squabbling. Maybe it was the disorganization. Maybe it was the fact that I had gone legally blind from drinking too much. But either way, I would not stay. And, given the choice between either quitting or staying in for the long haul and trying to change LAC for the better, I chose option C, which was Going Down in Flames and being kicked out. I thought this was a great idea, namely because I'm too much of a coward to tell people I hate them, but never not enough of a jackass to miss out on inspiring their hatred and contempt on a massive scale. You might say that there's some flaw in that logic, or that there's just something gramatically wrong with that sentence, but then again you might also say that gravity doesn't exist and the force we perceive is just millions of invisible hands holding us down on the face of the earth every hour of every day. But if you said that, you'd be an idiot, and people probably wouldn't want to give you a home loan or something. I rest my case.

So when it came down to me to participate in interviewing new volunteers for LAC, the opportunity seemed too fat and plump to pass up, like a Wendy's or a Taco Cabana, but not like an Arby's because their roast beef is weird and they charge too much for their other sandwiches. They scheduled me to meet a Josh Brewster in one of the conference rooms in the Student Services Building. The board was set, and the pieces were moving, and there was nothing to fear but fear itself, and something about an iron curtian and drinking tea with glass in it.

"Dress nice," they said. "Act friendly. Ask personal questions. Get to know them."

Following the Geroge Costanza method of success, I showed up wearing a gin-soaked KISS ME I'M SHITFACED T-shirt and a pair of jeans a family of possums had recently vacated when conditions had become too awful for their lofty standard of living. I also stole my friend's sports coat at the last minute, just to class things up, but being that he was a giant fat guy it looked like I was wearing a very sombre circus tent. I figured that would add the perfect je ne sais quoi (German for "shattered feces") for the meeting. I took the volunteer dossier with me, along with plenty of crayons and a sharpie so I could draw a face on my hand and perform a puppet routine in front of the bathroom mirror should the whimsy take me.

As I waited, I read over the form this "Josh Brewster" had filled out. I immediately noticed the lack of headshots, and I noted this by writing "PIX PLZ" on the top of dossier and drawing arrows randomly pointing all over the paper indicating places where said pictures could conceivably go. I decided to rectify the situation myself, and made sketches of what I considered Josh Brewster might look like.

When he showed up, he immediately lost points for refusing to conform to the standards I set. Not only was he not 90 feet tall, but he also lacked the required scales, prosthetic limbs, and the ablitity to spew rich, creamy Hershey's chocolate. Instead, he was a tall, scrawny kid with golden curls, rippling forearms, and eyes you could get lost in for hours. Unstatisfactory.

"JOSH: 0," I wrote. "ROBERT: A BILLION."

"Come in," I said.

He smiled at me. What a fag.

"Are you Josh?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

Too trusting.

"Take a seat," I said. As he did so I wrote "ICHIRO SUZUKI SUCKS BALLS" in the "date" portion of the dossier.

I glanced up.

"Are you sure you want that chair?" I asked.

He blinked and smile a little. "What?" he asked.

I looked at him for a moment, letting the silence slowly pregnante, and then smiled coldly, like the smile you give a lover just as you're leaving after sex, because you know you're going to take all the pizza with you on the way out the door and then not call.

"Nothing," I said. "It's nothing."

"I WOULD LIKE SOME PIZZA," I wrote in the "major" portion.

"Is that your shirt?" I asked him.

"Um," he said. "Yes."

I smiled and nodded sagely. "Good. Cool. All right." I stared at him for a moment, letting it go on just a little too long. I counted his blinks. There were seven.

"I tell you what, Josh," I said. "Can I call you 'Josh,' Josh?"


"You seem like a straight shooter, Josh, so I'm gonna shoot straight at you."

"Okay," he said.

"Great," I said. "You look like a digger," I said. "Do you dig a lot, Josh?"

"What?" he said.

"You've got digger's shoulders, right there. Well-toned triceps and meaty deltoids, yessir, that's digger's shoulders. We have a lot of need for a man who can bury things around here. I'll be honest, the last four didn't cut it. They couldn't bury a dead cat, let alone a live one. I know, I followed them around for days in my van. They don't dig for pleasure or for sport. They don't even own their own shovel. Not even a pickaxe. You know, you can tell a lot about a man by the way he buries something, Josh. It's a crucial thing."

I leaned back in my chair and took out a highlighter. I cracked it open, removed the ink filter, and proceeded to smoke it like a cigarette. It might've looked odd to old Josh, what with how my face was dripping with pink ink, but I was deep in the heart of Flavor Country, headed for the local Flavor Saloon and then, more than likely, the Flavor Brothel to nail some Flavor Whores in their Flavor Asses, and then I'd probably try and skip out paying them the Flavor Money, which is pink, like everything else is there, and on the one Flavor Dollar bill is a picture of a woodpecker, but I don't know why. Josh wouldn't understand, what with his snooty, lack-of-chocolate-spewing attitude.

"Yeah," I went on. "Every once in a while a man has to go out in the woods and bury something. Sometimes a man buries a thing, sometimes a thing buries a man. Sometimes you're the thing, and sometimes you're the man, and I suppose sometimes you're the shovel, if the digger had managed to fashion a crude shovel of some sort out of your bones. It's the circle of life, that's what it is, Josh. I suppose if you were really determined you could 'bury' your way out of the hole the thing buried you in, but wouldn't that just be digging, Josh?"


"Yes, yes it would, Josh. And I will not tolerate digging here. That's one thing we have to get clear. I will not. Tolerate. Digging," I said, forcefully tapping the desk with each word.

"Didn't you just ask me-"

"No," I said. "I don't ask. I never ask. Instead, I 'put a question to you.' There's a difference. One's more aggressive. For example, what's the difference between me saying, 'I want to put the wood to you' and 'I'd like to ask you to fuck me?' The difference, Josh, is that one doesn't translate well into Welsh, while the other is downright delightful. That's the difference, Josh, and that's what makes LAC different. You have to think outside the box, think about the tone of questions. Always think outside the box, Josh, especially if you're burying it, because the dirt's what's outside the box. Just you and the dirt and the shovel. Also, you probably don't want to look inside the box, because more than likely you were told specifically not to, and it's probably all freaky and crazy anyway. And if you do, then what do you do when that big fat Hawaiian guy finds out and comes after you by the side of the road with a beretta?"

Josh stared at me so hard I thought his eyes were going to fall out. If that happened I was going to jump over the desk and punch him right in the face, because there's no better time to punch a guy than when he's got no eyes. He won't see it coming, unless his eyes are still capable of relaying thoughts to his head even when they're separated, like they're little wireless cameras or walkie talkies or something, and that's just plain nuts.

"I'll tell you what you do, Josh," I said, "You lead him into the woods with a series of deceptive bird calls and then you wait for dark, and then you kill him with a shovel. Then you've got two things to bury, Josh. All because you wanted to look inside the box. And what did looking inside the box get you, Josh? Did knowing that that Hawaiian guy wanted to bury a severed clown's head make you a better person? Huh, did it, Josh? I don't think so. Not at all. Now, I'm not saying I have a problem with clowns, Josh. I love clowns. Do you love clowns?"

"Fuck, yes," Josh said. I noticed he was breathing hard and quivering slightly. "I love clowns."

"Hmm," I said, and wrote, "M-O-O-N, THAT SPELLS EAT SHIT" in the line that read "applicant's signature"

"I love clowns," I went on when I was done. "I love them to death. Not physically, mind you. I don't care for the greasepaint. No, I love them for the entertainment. I just think they should get taxed more than regular folk, because they terrify children, and dammit, that's my area of expertise. I don't see why they should get paid to terrify children and I shouldn't. Why, if I had my way, I would lead them all out into the woods at night with a series of deceptive bird calls and them kill them one by one, BANG!" I said, hitting the table with my fist. "RIGHT IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD!". I'm fairly certain that at that moment Josh shit his pants. If he didn't then, he sure did later. I demonstrated the edge and angle of the shovel with a chop of my hand.

"Not a lot of people can take a shovel in the back of the head, Josh. You think a clown might be able to, what with all the big curly red hair, but that's no cushion. Maybe it would be, if the hair was made out of steel wool, but who would want that? The hair would scatch up the other clown's crotches when they sat on each other's shoulders! And that's just awful, isn't it, Josh?"

"Yes," Josh said, but his voice was very hoarse.

"Do you think you can take a shovel to the back of the head, Josh? Because I can guarantee you can't. I've had people bet me they can take a shovel to the back of the head, but they never can. They never bet me with 'words,' so to speak, but they bet me with actions. By, say, cutting me off as they merge onto the highway, or being female and fairly attractive and not giving me any attention. It's the abstracts that matter, JoshShovel. It's the abstracts that matter in life, and it's the abstracts that matter here at LAC. At least I think they matter, but to be honest, I'm not sure what LAC does. When I joined I thought it was a lifeguard training organization, or maybe an elite Burying Things Organization, but instead all they do is get all red when I yell and then they ask me to leave. I think I was supposed to ask you some questions here, Josh, so I guess I better get down to that. First off, where do you live, and how many windows does it have that are accessible from the street?"

But when I looked up, Josh was long gone. All that was visible of him was his non-scaly backside fleeing into the neon corridors, running at a full sprint. That was a shame, because I wanted him to watch my puppet show. I would've even paid him in Flavor Dollars.

I leaned back, stubbed out my highlighter cigarette, and wrote "CASE CLOSED BY ROBERT ANTONIO ST. AWESOME" on the bottom of the dossier. I handed it in in the morning.

Within two weeks, Josh was safely concealed in a police safehouse, and I was dead.

How to Please a Woman

Every good experience in the bedroom - or the living room, or the dining room, or the kitchen on the counter, or in the bathroom, or on the porch, or behind your local Denny's, or in the back of a cop car - starts with a kiss. You have to kiss her. Don't assume you know how she likes to be kissed. As with most everything you do with a woman, you have to look for feedback. So when you kiss her, don't shove your tongue down her throat. Unless she shoves HER tongue down your throat first, in which case, hey dude, you're absolutely fucking golden there. Go for it.

Otherwise, lean in and kiss her lightly. Don't use tongue instantly - believe it or not, some women don't like tongue. Really! Some women don't enjoy french kissing. Get a feel very briefly for the way she likes to be kissed; is she pressing harder against you, kissing you a little harder than you're kissing her? Step it up, keep the pace with her. Try lightly pressing your tongue against her lips as she kisses you; if she wants your tongue in her mouth, she's going to open her mouth. Again, don't cram your tongue down her throat. Just use your tongue to play with hers, let them mingle. Start out slowly, then pick up the pace a little. Does she go along with you? Is she pressing against you a little harder? Sweet. You're not doing badly, then.

Also, make sure your hands aren't hanging limply at your sides while you're kissing her. Run your fingers through her hair, cup her chin in your hand, rest one palm against the side of her face, let your fingers trail lightly down her neck. Touch her while you're kissing her; it'll really enhance the kiss by helping turn her on just a little more, and it'll help you build up your tactile energy, which you'll need a little bit later on.

Now it's time to get her naked; this is very important, as the rest of the ritual cannot be performed if she's clothed. Touch is extremely important here, too; as you remove her shirt, her bra, her skirt, her panties, you must touch her. Let your fingers trail lightly down her neck, between her breasts, over her stomach. Rest your hands on her hips; lean in and kiss her again. Let your hands drift up again; cup her breasts while you kiss her, teasing her nipples with your fingers. Once she's completely naked, continue to build up your tactile energy, and you'll continue to turn her on more and more.

Guide her to the bed. Lay her down and take your place beside her, and continue kissing her. Your fingers should never leave her body at this point; you cannot afford to break the connection now. Explore her body slowly, patiently, taking special note of her reactions. Does she moan and shiver when you kiss her neck? Good. Do that again. Don't rush, and don't stop touching her. Touch her breasts, her nipples, her neck, her back, her legs, everywhere. Kiss her nipples; suck on them lightly, nibble them lightly. Continue to kiss her; watch her, watch her reactions. Look into her eyes while you touch her.

Let your fingers slide down to her legs. Trace your fingers along her inner thigh, teasing her even more. By this time she should be incredibly turned on, and she should be ready for you to go down on her. This is the perfect time to break the connection and focus the tactile energy you've been storing up. The altar should be ready, the words in your head. Now it's time to finish the ritual.

Remove your hands from her body and situate yourself over her prone form; straddle her chest and raise your hands above your head. Spread your arms and let your hands fall back slightly. Curl in your ring and pinky fingers, leaving your thumb and other fingers completely extended. This will help you channel the tactile energy, to focus it. You may notice a slight, soft, preliminary glow around the edges of your hands. Don't worry; it hasn't begun yet. This is normal.

She may ask what you're doing. Don't answer her; the only words you can afford to say at this point are the words of the ancient T'kahsh. If you utter any other words, not only will the ceremony halt, but you will lose more energy than you have gained. You may even revert to your true form, and you cannot even begin to imagine the chaos that would ensue if that happened. Smile at her reassuringly, and begin speaking the words in a low, calm voice. Utter the following:

"E'hat neha eh karai, e'hat karai. T'kahsh kala eh'rat nala ehto karai."

You will notice the soft red glow of the e'hat around your hands at this point; it will creep down your arms, flowing like water. This will mean that the ritual is going correctly.

Your woman may begin to struggle at this point. One good thing about this ritual of rebirth is that your mental powers will be at their strongest once the strength of the e'hat begins to flow through you. Simply meet her gaze, lock your eyes with hers. Her struggles will cease instantly, and she will not renew her struggling for the duration of the ritual. Once this has been done, you can relax. It's almost over now, and unless you fuck something up, you're set.

Place your hands together, one over the other, and place them atop her chest. They should be positioned as if you're trying to give her chest compressions. You'll see the e'hat flow over her body, sinking into her. You will instantly feel the strength as you lock into her spirit. Now you must finish the words. Recite the following:

"Eh'rai T'kahsh kala no keh, kala no hai, e'hat karai t'nai."

You will notice the e'hat brighten, and you will feel a surge of power as her spirit is torn from her body, shredded, and fed into yours. The rush will be almost overwhelming, and you may feel the urge to scream. This is fine, considering the fact that the words have all been spoken. A primal scream is natural at this point. Within a few seconds, her spirit will be completely absorbed into yours, and the e'hat will dissipate.

Your woman will be dead at this point. I can't help you dispose of the body; that's up to you. Just remember to cast a quick invisibility charm on it before you dump it; it'll take very little of your spirit, and it'll last for six hundred years. They'll never find her.

Enjoy your refreshed, rejuvenated spirit!

Note: I did not write this, but I sure wish I had.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

So what the fuck happened to me, huh?

So... I just checked and found the last post I made was in, uh... March. I'm sure you're all wondering where the flying fuck I've been. Was I continuing my brave crusade to rescue kittens from dark places? Ferrying orphans to Disneyland in my solid gold yacht that apparently can drive straight up on land? Whoremongering with Nelson Mandela?

No, I'm afraid not. At least not with Nelson Mandela. Pretty much what happened was schoolwork picked up and I was suddenly coming home from the library every day at fucking eleven o'clock to be heckled by shirtless bufoons playing sports games, and then they made me clean house and wash their hair and sell real estate for their evil, faceless corporations.

Okay, except for that last entire thing, what I said was true. School gots hard. And then I sort've got bored with the whole blog thing. And when I say "got bored with," I mean several ethnicities and political groups politely asked me to stop via the medium of lead pipes flying down at sharp angles. They only reacted because I was telling the truth and because I kept drunk dialing their elderly relatives.

But now I'm back, and more shirtless than ever. Right now I'm looking for a shitty job, which is difficult, because for high school all I did to earn money was play in a quartet for weddings and parties, and who the fuck am I supposed to cite for that reference? Me? Some dumbshit couple who's probably divorced now? That and in freshmen year I worked for a mostly-illegal-landscaping company, but I talked to my mom, and, I am not joking, the guy who ran that place drank himself to death, apparently. That sucks, because he was pretty cool. But it came as no surprise. I mean, this was a guy who tore the filters off his Camels before smoking them. He was either going to die in his own vomit or in the flaming inferno his Dodge Ram had become after plowing into an orphpanage at sixty miles an hour. Sometimes Fate is just written in the stars. But, regardless, there's no reaching that guy, unless you invented some sort've whoop ass phone, in which case I have a sound financial plan that consists of contacting Jesus, cooking up a few more books of the Bible, and then selling them to the Pope or Bush or whoever for All The Money in the Fucking World.

But that's still in development, so I'm going to head over to HEB and say, "Hey, do you have any shitty, shitty jobs for me to do at minimum wage? I'll do anything. I'd fucking eat mulch for a dollar, I swear. Do you have a dollar?" Bagging groceries. That fate is also written in the stars.

I guess I'll fill you in on the latest dumbshit thing I did in order to end this whining on a high and obscene note. Richard had his 21st birthday dinner last Saturday, and about 20 people showed up, including his dad and mom. Later on in the dinner his mom wound up walking around asking people the irritating and difficult question of what they planned to do after college, and after several nervous, shirking answers, she eventually got to me, and, in total deadpan, I told her "Oh, I'm going to be a merciless assassin who operates under the cover of a Hollywood gigolo."

She asked "What?" and then I told her again. Then I noticed that three people around me were laughing wildly, tears running down their faces, and the other 15 people in the room were staring at me open mouthed. Well, fuck me, I didn't know this was going to be a fucking formal ball, being that the birthday boy had already openly uttered the words "fuck" and "shit." Also, the last time I ate with his family, his 28 or so year old brother wound up enthusiastically miming a girl masturbating two ejaculating penises onto her face, so I figured I wasn't exactly rolling with royalty, here. So I decided to explain my plan, cause, see, as a high-class Hollywood gigolo, I can have intimate places with high security, and no one ever suspects the vapid gigolo. Eventually a few other people wound up laughing, and I nearly killed Tyler, Ryan, and Jasper, but Richard's mom just stared at me blankly. She stares at everyone that way, though, so I guess I'm in the clear.

Tune in next week to read my review of Revenge of the Sith, and why Hayden Christiansen should be prosecuted for war crimes.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

A Prelude (or, possibly, a Eulogy)

Yeah. So it's 1:47 into St. Paddy's day. And, yeah, I've had a few. So what? It was necessary. Two pints at midnight.... plus the cleaning we did when we realized the minifridge was already full of domestic beer. Couldn't have that. So if I speak in short, Hemingway-ish bursts tonight, you know why.

Tommorrow's the day. Should be fun. Got my alarm set for 10:30 so we can get an early start. Got 1,360 oz of Irish beer over there, plus 750ml of Irish whiskey. It is an invitation to a murder. Don't know who will be coming over, but they will have front row seats of me probably making an ass out of myself. Clothes might not fit tommorrow.

The end.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Too Good of a Day to do any Real Work

Today is a nice day.

So fuck real work.

And fuck blogging.

The end.

(go away)

Sunday, March 06, 2005

Let Me Tell You About My Shitty, Shitty Day

Because, I mean, that's what you're here for, right? To be my sounding board as I relate my ridiculous antics and high-jinks?

So this is Wednesday last week. I was sick. I was very sick. I got sick over the weekend. It was like my lungs were full of petroleum jelly and my sinus cavities were full of cement. I was hacking up lung butter and oysters the size of rugby balls, much to the wild disgust of anyone nearby. Sleeping was especially hard. For whatever reason, lying flat would exacerbate my spasmadic coughs, which Derek told me "sounded like your lungs were tearing themselves apart."

I made an appointment to go see the Doctor on Wednesday, but the only time they had available was 8:25 in the morning, which I had never personally experienced. I had only heard of it second-hand, like Swedes and the concept of a trusting relationship. I dreaded the idea of waking up at 7:30, but, God almighty, I was a very sick boy.

But that didn't matter. I coughed myself awake at 5:30 and never got back to sleep, what with the coughing and the having to go to the bathroom to spit out mouthfuls of phlegm. I have never been more glamorous. And that is saying something. Derek never woke up. But then again, this is the man who didn't wake up when I got a stomach virus and spent the whole night frantically running back and forth to the toilet vomiting. Derek would sleep through the Rapture.

This gave me about three or four hours of sleep. I got up and saw that it was a cold, wet, rainy day. Usually I would like a day like that, but being that I would have to trudge through this horrible shit to get to the Student Services Building I was somewhat less than enthused. However, I had to get better. I had about four papers due coming up and I had already missed two days of swimming.

This is when it got shitty. Up until now, you have no idea.

I was somewhere in West Campus, trying to avoid the major puddles and swatches of mud, when an incident of mathematical and physical perfection occurred. A tire of a passing car was moving juuuust at the right speed, just at the right angle, and was composed of the perfect texture and consistency to catch a puddle of the thickest, foulest, coldest mud possible and shower me with it from the waist down.

I've heard that when people get shot for a moment they don't even realize what happened. The shock of the impact stuns them so much they go into a daze. This is what happened to me. I was just walking along, when I got a bucketful of freezing natural waste up the ass. My mind spun. I didn't even swear. That was how blasted I was.

I then struggled for several seconds with choice of going back home and changing my pants, or getting to the doctor and getting some drugs in me. I decided I couldn't stop, but I sure as hell couldn't sit around in filthy pants for an hour. I was freezing. I was disgusting. I was sick and mad as hell.

I got to the Co-Op and decided to just buy another pair of pants. Windbreakers, if I could get them. I stopped in a bathroom along the way to scrape off most of the mud so that when I put my pants in my backpack they wouldn't fuck everything up. In doing this I forgot my umbrella in one of the stalls. So I added umbrella to the list, too.

I found both. And they were both a circus-bright shade of burnt orange. The most appalling thing, though, is that the cost of this was 55 fucking dollars. Which I pretty much didn't have except in credit card form, which I try to avoid using. But I did. Sigh.

So I was still sick and wet and slightly poorer. And now I was dressed like an idiot. And I was almost late. I had to burn ass.

On the way, I got a serious fit of the coughs and, in doing so, coughed a contact lens right out of my fucking face. So now I was sick, wet, ripped-off, looking like an idiot, late, and half-blind. I've run through airports half-blind. That was harder, but not by much.

I got there just in time for a bunch of students and faculty to look at me like I had an elephant penis growing out of my chest. They chucked me in a room in the back and then a nice doctor who was so obviously a lesbian gave me a prescription for a suafed-like drug and, thank God, sweet, sweet coedine. I went back to my apartment, tossed my pants in the washing machine, showered, chugged some of it, and drifted away into the luscious hands of medicated sleep.

I woke up two hours later still drugged as hell. I went to class and stared into space and made a few comments that made no grammatical sense.

If you care, I feel better now. No 100%, but since when am I ever at 100%? But that's the worst day I've had in a long time. There have been worse, but those are few and usually involve the justice system in some way or an extremely attractive girl bursting into contemptuous laughter/rolling her eyes at me. At least now I can drug myself.

I Am A Better Person Than You (now with 15% more stupidity!)

When it comes right down to it, every once in a while a person is born whose life is so much more important than everyone else's that the deaths of thousands are worth just feeding him a burrito, even if it isn't a very good burrito, with the shitty grocery store sour cream and grade G meat and such.

You should probably know that I am not one of these bronzed gods of men. I'm more like their king. Infallible, brilliant, yet humble and with okay hygiene, and the genitals of a thoroughbred stallion.

If you want to know where I'm going with this, I sure as hell don't know. However, I have noticed that there are many facets of society which severely need my keen attention.

For one, I think that the motivational posters in elementary schools are sorely unfit for preparing kids for the real world. I have thought up several slogans which I think are sure to galvanize the sloven and decrepit ranks of our children and get them back to the coal mines. As you read, try not to drool as you gape at my intelligence.

Ugly Kids Are For Desk Jobs

This Kitten is Sad Because You Can't Spell

Pants Surprises are Fun Surprises

Only Asian Kids Are Good at Math. White Kids Are for Pretend Jobs.

The Kiddie Porn Industry is a Growth Industry

You Know You Were An Accident if All Your Toys Suck

Your New Mommy is Prettier for a Reason

If Someone Offers You Candy to Get in their Car, Shit, Take It, It's Fucking Candy, Dumbass

Like the Easter Bunny? You're a Fag, and a Stupid Fag to Boot

As you can see, kids would be leaping out of their desks after reading these encouranging statements. I don't know why they'd be leaping, but kids are stupid and jump around and yell all the time, right? Something like that. Also they shit all the time. They're like puppies, only these you HAVE to feed.

Also, here's a list of good nicknames and nom de plumes for no real reason. (extra names included!)

Buffs McMuscles

Ford O'Brawny

Gene Shallitt

Bullit McMagnum

Slate Absen

Monsieur Carton - Southern Wyoming's Finest Boxed Wine

Caesar O'Tyrant

Hedonism Bot

Sloane Hung

Johnny Stompanado

Max Powers

Max Payne

Max Turbo

Max Action

Max Volume

Mad Max

Max Max

Phallus Van Horne

Nitro O'splosive

Ted Kennedy

Kermit the Fucking Asskicker

Rocky del Granite

Ted Danson

Romeo Adonis "I'm Very Good At Sex" Casanova

And that's all for tonight. I think we've all been enlightened. Also, the coedine is making me very sleepy.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005


Did anyone ever notice the useless extra "R" in "February?" The only people I've noticed who pronounced that were in the far, far North.

Anyways, I've been busy as hell this month. Typically, I'm reading (or am supposed to be reading) 4-6 texts at once, not including scholarly essays, of which there are a shitload. Busy busy busy, work work work.

But enough of this pointless whining. On to the outrageous and obscene whining, which is just as pointless, but is what you guys actually come here to read.

However, I'm too damn tired to whine. I think I'll take a nap instead. I'll sum up things as fast as I can:

Usual hooligan stuff, threw rocks at propane tanks, possibly broke the air conditioning in a complex, ate pasta with bloody mary mix (was quite good), swore profusely at the elderly, set fire to a blood bank, wore a ten gallon hat for an entire day without noticing, resurrected grandpa in an unholy ritual just so he could write me a check, pretended to be a food inspector just so I could get a free meal, etc, etc, etc. Try and guess where I started making things up.