Monday, January 31, 2005

Robert Bennett's Professional Analysis as to Why the Democrats Lost

Like many of you out there, or at least half or so, I am actively aware of American Politics. Now, if you sat down and asked me something political, such as "Who is the Speaker of the House?" or "Could you please spell the word, 'President?'" I would probably be unable to answer, and would also just stare at you wildly before breaking into a sprint. This is because I have little to no knowledge of what actually happens in the sphere of politics, but I DO know that such a sphere exists.

Using these depths of knowledge, I plan to dissect the world of American Presidential politics with brilliant acumen, and decipher exactly why the Democrats lost. I am doing this because I feel it is good for the nation, and I also do not especially want to read Moll Flanders now.

Let's start with the basics. It's a general rule that whichever party is not currently in power will always be the most annoying one (this is simplified for America, because we only have two parties: the Redneck, Intolerant Hicks and the Whiny, Douchey Urbanites). This is just how politics works. For instance, remember when Clinton was in power, and then we found out his secretary went down on him? The Republicans were all over that like stink on a very large monkey, and began an incredibly expensive inquiry which eventually grew more and more graphic and more and more outrageous that people eventually would hear a man named Ken Starr saying obscene things on the news like "Now, the most important thing we must consider is exactly when the President pulled his cock out and gave Ms. Lewinsky a nice fat cream pie." We all got sick of it, especially explaining to our kids what a "cunt ream" was (and yes, I have kids, it was a one time thing and they live with their mother in Michigan).

This is just one example of party whininess. I'm trying to be fair minded here, so I'm bashing both sides.

Skip to 2004, where the latest Presidential election is approaching. The Democrats are out of power, but what's amazing for this past election is that the main voice of the urban liberal is not a politician. Stop and ask yourself, "Who was the main voice of the liberal on the street this election?"

And the answer, of course, is Michael Moore.

Now, regardless of what you think of Michael Moore's political opinions, ask yourself, "Is Michael Moore, on a personal and charismatic level, a very likeable person?"

The answer, of course, is "FUCK no."

Michael Moore was, is, and forever shall be NOT likeable in the least. He is a large, fat, hairy man whose mission in life is to get in your face and yell at you over controversial issues that seem to be your fault. This is his job, and he's very good at it. He prides himself on being confrontational and outspoken. This is how he wages his war, and he does a damn good job of it. See the box office haul if you want to check. He gets in there and he just plain raises hell.

The problem is, a lot of people do not like to raise hell.

Ask yourself, "When is the last time I protested something? When is the last time I had a strong, unflinching opinion on a hard line, divisive issue, and I was willing to get in a total stranger's face and confront him on his stance?" I assume not too many of you will have a specific date. I don't know outspoken people, and I don't really want to. I don't want to know someone who may, at any time, yell at me about some issue (be it abortion or gay marriage), and then storm out of the room. People like that suck.

Polticians know this. They either avoid the hell out of controversial subjects, or they dance around them from time to time, saying one thing and then saying the other. Because, they know, when you have an opinion on a divisive subject, you probably will bash the hell out of the other side, often times right to their faces, if you can do it, and people don't like to see other people yell and fight and scream and pull hair. When you have a divisive opinion, people are either going the be zealosly with you, zealously against you, or in the middle turned off by both sides. What it comes down to is who has the louder voice, because that side will be the one turning off the most people. And this time, maybe by chance, I think, it was the liberal side. Hell, they had goddamn movies come out, movies that made the headlines week after week. Did the conservatives make any goddamn movies? I don't think so.

The average American, I think, is not controversial. He is not confrontational. He wants to be Left the Hell Alone.

People said that gay marriage was the key issue of this election, but think about how, exactly, the war for gay marriage was waged, along with who joined that war, and how they sounded on the news.

I, personally, do not have a problem with gay marriage. You can do whatever you like with your genitals, as long as I don't have to see it or hear about it. But I think that the issue was raised at a bad time. It's not good to bring something up that is so incredibly divisive and has actual religious bearings during an election, because the average American doesn't want to hear about it. Seriously. Most of us are not confrontational people. Shrugging is the national expression. We got sick and tired of hearing about Clinton's cock, and we got sick and tired of hearing about gay marriage. We just want to watch some TV and make some money.

So that's one thing. The liberal voice became urban instead of political, and in doing so alienated a large quantity of the demographics.

The other thing is that old political staple: likeability.

People always vote for the more likeable candidate, no matter what the Daily Show says. People will vote for someone that, if they don't know their political stances, they'd like to be their friend. Look at the 2000 election. Even though Bush seemed awkward and bumbling at times, people still found him more likeable than Gore (though I do find Gore pretty cool after appearing on Futurama twice and being funny as hell). Gore seemed like he'd be a good accountant, or maybe he'd be the guy you'd want to have taking notes for you in class, but when it came down to sitting down and having a beer with him, no way. Whereas Bush played baseball, liked Austin Powers, had a ranch with ponies with lots of pretty hair, and was just more affable.

Skip to this election. To the general public, John Kerry seemed to be a long-winded basset hound's scrotum. And EVEN THOUGH Bush had a very shaky political record (and I think he did), his likeability overcame these obstacles. People were either incredibly for him, incredibly against him (no one was actually FOR Kerry), or in between, and the between people had the choice of either voting for someone who seemed like an okay guy, or someone who seemed to be melting.

Personally, if the Democrats had run John Edwards, I think they would've won. John Edwards is the sort've guy you'd want your son to grow up to be or your daughter to marry. He's got the whole home-spun, Father Knows Best, 1960's TV dad-wisdom thing going on. He's Southern but Liberal, family-oriented, and clean cut and nice. Bush is damaged in the family arena, having some dubious daughters (GO LONGHORNS), a boozy past, and Cheney has a lesbian daughter (I bet if you got the Bush twins and Cheney's daughter hammered, you could make a pretty AWESOME political advertisement). If John Edwards had been up on that podium instead of Kerry, he would've charmed his way into America's heart. John Kerry might've been smart, but smart don't count for shit in the political realm. It's all about image, and John Kerry's image seemed to be that of a tragic burn victim.

Anyways, with those two powers combined, I think the Democrats had problems from the start. Actually, I'm amazed that it was as close as it was, but rather than this be the fruits of the labors of the Democrats, I think it's more the fruit of Bush having screwed a few things up. Enough people voted against Bush, rather than for Kerry, because no one was actually for Kerry anyways. No one said, "This man will make America's future great," they were like, "This man is not currently George Bush." That was his only appeal, and although it was surprisingly strong, it wasn't strong enough. Enough people were alienated by the newfound liberal outrage, or enough people were unconvinced by Kerry himself.

So that's my opinions. There are probably lots of holes in it, but I don't care, it was a good waste of forty five mintues and I didn't have to read. I don't know if I've pissed anyone off, but I hope I haven't, because that would mean I know someone who cares too much about politics, and then I'll have to hear about this from you. Boo hiss.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

the worst post EVER

Okay. It's time to deal with you boys and girls on the level. There always is a moment in your past when that great, wonderful image of one individual who has always been a model of perfection to you will, indeed, be shattered. Eventually you will always have to come to grips with the grim, merciless specter of reality, and understand that your heroes are human, and they, too, can bleed.

This is that moment for you, America. (EDITOR'S NOTE: America is composed of six people who happen to know me)

At times, in my life, I become bored.

Yes, it's true. At some time there just isn't any more babies to save from fires caused by corporations, or exotic female tourists to aid in understanding America's culture, and why most of that culture involves doing something to some part of her body, or maybe Derek continues to refuse to give me a pony ride, or maybe there just isn't any more pungent garbage cans for me to dig through (and no, I do not wear gloves, I am not a pussy). But, eventually, I have nothing to do. Except bullshit in my blog, which is exactly what I plan to do.

Yes, godammit, like our forefathers in the past, I am ready to get up and work (and by get up at work I mean sit in this chair and not work). I am ready to do this country honor/horrific injury to its pride. I am ready to lead you into the future/dingy back alley. There has been too much of evil men/me and my cousin Earl looting the virtue of this great nation, and it's time for someone/no one to do something about it/sit around and watch tv all goddamn day.

So, pretty much what I'm saying is that I just asked Noah to give me a topic to write about, and Noah said that I should write about racism, and why there isn't enough of it.

This will be the least PC post ever written. I'm serious. No, not PC, this will be downright awful and nasty and stupid. You should just stop reading now. This will either kill you immediately or burn the eyes right out of your head. I'd like to stop writing this, but Noah said to, and I can't say no to Noah because he's adorable.

I'm serious. You have to have a VERY twisted sense of humor to read this. I'm looking back on what I wrote and I can't BELIEVE I did it. FYI, I believe none of this stuff. I just have to put that out there. Understand that. And then, if you refuse to understand that, understand that I don't care. I'm giving Noah all the credit on this train wreck. I'm sorry, world.

So, here we go.

(paid for by the Strom Thurmond memorial society)
by Noah Johnson

In the physical world, certain things follow certain rules. For instance, when you run an electric current through a certain type of wire, it will light up due to the resistance to that electricity. If a ball is dropped from a certain height, it will fall that exact height, and this is due to the invisible ghost-hands that live under the surface of the earth and hold us down. These are not true in all cases. These are generalities, but they are good enough so that you can usually make a safe bet on what's going to happen.

It is much the same way with nature. Males are attracted to females, unless they had extremely close bonds with their mothers as children. Females are attracted to males, unless paid signifant amounts of money by producers or truck drivers. And there are certain divisions of people that have their own certain rules, too.

You see, kids, when God made the world, he decided to "color code" people so we knew what we'd be dealing with. These colors go from dark to light, and the degree of darkness is naturally inverse to the degree of God's sweet, sweet blessing.

Some people, called "Liberals," or "lazy, whiny douches," which is their Latin name, would like you to think otherwise. They would like you to believe that this is, in fact, the opposite. Liberals believe in a man who was called Karl Marx, who once said that people who have advanced abilities should feel ashamed of themselves, and should not be allowed to make the world a better place. For instance, if your biceps were larger than those of the rest of the people (or "proles"), the authorities (or "Man-Gods-With-Big-Moustaches") would find what the average bicep size was, and then proceed to shave off layers of your biceps until you weren't better than anyone else. This is called "Communism," or "The NotGood."

For instance, white people have made things like boats, guns, electricity, horses, the sky, and those ghost-hands I talked about earlier. Remember the ghost-hands? If it weren't for white people, you'd be flying off the face of the earth and into God's heaven, where you are not welcome until He wants you there. Whereas the greatest thing black people have made so far is Usher and the high stock value of Menthols. Asian people have made noodles, but they managed to screw that up because they eat them with sticks. Imagine that! Who eats a noodle with a stick? Silly asians! And Indian and Arab people have made the plague and the innovation of using nails in suicide bombs, respectively.

So you see, boys and girls, these "colored" people behave in ways differently from us. First of all, none of them can read! So they don't know what we're talking about, wink, wink! But if you know the tendencies of these other people, you can understand how the world works better!

For instance, if you see a black man walking slowly down the road, swaying back and forth and being passed up by white people, you might, just for a moment, think that he does that because he's cool. But no! The reason black people walk slow and silly is because they do not have jobs to go to, whereas white people do, and walk at a brisk place. Also, this black person we've chosen might have incredibly large shirts, low shorts, and shoes that are large and silly. Also, his cap may be at angles that do not line up with his face, and his backpack straps may be down around his elbows. Is this because he is cool? No! It is because he does not know how to correctly operate clothing.

Now let us examine Asian people. Asian people are God's machines, working themselves to death. They do not actually have emotions, but have managed to evolve the semblance of a soul by mimicking the actions of civilized white people. One can tell they are not actually human beings by looking at their cartoons, which feature distorted images of people with giant eyes and tiny mouths, and the emotions of these people are expressed by, say, a teardrop on the side of their head, or maybe a series of squiggly lines coming out of their head for no apparent reason. Asian people are walking computers that live to serve one person's will, and upon failing that, will promptly disembowl themselves. Isn't that silly? Silly asians!

Do you understand now how the world works? And understand that races function along a certain series of actions, and racism is just the science of knowing those actions? Good! Maybe you can figure out what the actions of other races are, such as Mexicans, and everyone's favorite, the mulatto!


Godammit, I'm going to hell.

Understand that I do not believe any of that, but a good writer should always be capable of putting himself in the mindset of another, even if it's utterly awful and terrible (Noah Johnson's). I hope that decades in the future the world will understand, long after they have burned me at the stake.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Who I Am and How I Came to Be (or, the serious post)

"The world is made for those who are not cursed with self-awareness."
-Bull Durham

I never meant for this thing to ever be serious. This blog was created for the amusement for those dozen or so of people who have my screen name, and may find my irrational blitherings amusing for a few moments, perhaps enough to compel them to return again and read more. However, this is a serious post, unfortunately, and those of you looking for inaccurate details of my boorish actions should probably go elsewhere, or close the window immediately.

They say that people spend their lives running from and reacting to dangers and fears long past. Ideas and nightmares impressed upon us in childhood, themes and visions that have since grown into invisible nightmares that force and block our actions, whether we know it or not. I think this is largely true. A boy physically abused as a child may shy away from touch or physical interaction. A girl who lost her parents may find the idea of abandonment terrifying, and seek shelter and consolation in the arms of others. Yeah, it's true.

Let me explain what is going on here. As I recently said in a previous post, I have joined a swimming class for both knee problems and physical conditioning. You may also remembered that I jokingly suggested that I would be the fastest and best in the class, which, of course, was bullshit, but the degree to how much of that was bullshit I don't think anyone knew.

We had our first class today, and, oh boy, did I do bad. I felt physically up to the role, and am not quite tired, but my technique, my abilities, my general skill in swimming, is pathetic. Breathing is the most difficult part. It sounds simple when someone explains this to me, all you have to do is breathe by the side of your head, but in the water... It's much harder, at least for me. I can't breathe in fast enough or I can't breathe out fast enough, I take huge, gulping, panicked breaths and sometimes take in pool water, too. Eventually I just keep my head above the water, which makes swimming maybe twice as hard. Not only that, a large portion of the rest of the class apparently know how to swim quite well and only joined so that someone could force them to exercise (the lazy bastards; if you know how to do something and can do it well, then fucking do it). The instructors tell me not to worry, that by the end of the semester, they'll have me looking great. I believe them, sort of.

Now you are wondering, "Why is this so important to him? Why is such a small thing bothering him so much?" Well, let me explain.

Well, I guess I'll start at the beginning.

When I was a kid, I had so many physical flaws it was incredible. I was pale and skinny, I was slow and uncoordinated, I couldn't run, catch, or throw. When the other kids played football (after they let me hang out with them), I was always the referee. And I had a terrible case of athsma. I remember sitting in the doctor's office, breathing through a nebulizer, the sterile, acrid taste of the medicinized smoke filling my sinuses, a thick white fog that made my brain and eyes ache. And I remember the sheer and utter terror as a kid when I didn't even know I had athsma, I didn't know what was wrong with me. I remember one of the first times outside of our elementary school. The sun was bright and hot, the grass yellow and baked, fragile and dead from the lack of water. We played football, myself essentially an extra man who ran around in circles and barely even saw the ball. And then suddenly the world seemed to slow down, to go dark maybe, and my lungs were like sacks of cement sitting in my chest, writhing masses of mucous and pain, like I was filled with oil and dust. I fell down, and I felt the hot grass on my neck and the back of my knees, and the world span, and there were noises in me, rattling and harsh, but you couldn't hear them, only feel them, like giant strings run across the hollow spaces in my insides, vibrating and grating against my heart and guts.

But what I most remember were the eyes of the other kids. Circling around me, confused and, I think, disgusted. The one who can't play football can't even run. He can't play anything. They just stood around me, watching, not doing anything, not going for help, just watching my face grow red and my body writhe and convulse and my eyes bulge. Watching me die slowly on the brown, hot grass.


I think, it is much the same way when I stutter.

It must look the same, I think. My eyes roll and my face twitches, I make fists and grit my teeth, trying to pry the word out of my handicapped and inadequate tongue. And everyone watches. Confused, bewildered, wary. They wonder why sometimes I can't say my name, why I have to take out my ID and point to it. Why sometimes, when I make a phone call, I can't even ask if the person I want to speak to is there. I can't say their name. I struggle for a while, and then I say, "Is your son there?" and I wonder what they must think. They must feel awkward and uneasy around me.

This would be okay if I was a stupid guy and didn't have a lot to say. But I'm not. I want to talk constantly, all the time, I have a million little quips and jokes to say, a million ideas and visions, and they're all trapped within this worthless mortal coil that barely even works. I want to run fast and I want to give speeches, I want to be in plays and I want to teach, I want to catch footballs and baseballs and every type of ball there is, I want to find things out, but every social interaction, every physical interaction is a symphony of awkwardness and potential failure. And they'll watch. They'll watch me fail, right in front of them, and they'll see it, and they'll judge and know and remember and the dreams and ideas I have in my head will be worthless then.
There is another fact about me I find dourly amusing.

When I was born, my mother had to undergo a C section without anaesthetic because I was flatlining. I was a tiny wet corpse, ripped from my mother's stomach as she screamed in endless pain. Something born dead. Something that was worthless. Something that not only is inefficient at existing in this world, but should not exist at all, and does not have any right to. That's a hell of a thing to think, isn't it? That the things you've seen and done and made would, if Mother Nature had her way, loving and sweet Gaia, giver and taker of life, never have existed. I'm living on stolen time.

I guess you could call me a medical miracle, but a medical miracle really is just a biological fuck up that people, with their few advantages over nature, were capable of correcting. Mighty Darwin has no place within his ranks for medical miracles. Medical miracles are polluting the fucking gene pool.

My wish, my greatest fantasy, has always been to be faster, stronger, smarter, and generally better than everyone I see and meet. People wonder why I work out, and they probably think it's vanity, but I'm not looking for a hard body. I'm looking for optimum performance, I'm looking to hedge my bets in life, that, maybe, if I can better myself to the max in every way that I can, maye I can offset the massive flaws that have been built into me. Maybe if I improve my cardiovascular system, my athsma and allergies will not matter. Maybe, if you do the math, I can be normal. Or better than normal. I want to be better, I want for when people watch me, when they see me in life and in this world, they won't see a failure, something that Should Not Have Been, they'll see something great and strong and admirable. Something useful, something that is not worthless.

Sometimes it is extreme. A lot of the times, actually. Sometimes every person who is better than me is like a drop of blood taken out of my vains, a wound the world inflicts on me, a strike that I have to overcome. Another blow. The world spitting in my face and laughing, showing me what a real person is like, a functioning and happy person. And I smile back, and I work, and I try to be better. I try to beat everyone. A professor once noted on one of my papers that many of my metaphors and similes deal with warfare, and he wondered why that is. Well, because, to me, life is war. Pure and simple. Only there are no allies, there is no backup, no reinforcements, no friends or loved ones or help. There's just you and everyone else, everyone else in the world, everyone with eyes and consciousness. That's my war. The war to make myself worthy and superior in the bright and hard and cruel eyes of the world, and the war is slow and hard and bitter, a crushing crawl as I overcome and eliminate obstacles with brutal, merciless efficiency. And if I can't do it, if I can't make them see me like I want them to, then I'll gouge those eyes out with my bare hands and die laughing.

This, of course, is melodramic, self-pitying, and utterly futile. I am aware of that. It is barbaric and silly, the vicious fantasy of a vicious child. But sometimes, that is how the world is to me.

And when I swam today the fears and the unhappiness came back to me. Everyone gliding gracefully though the water, liquid spears of muscle sliding through the clear, beautiful water. Everyone but me, who was a mass of spasms and panic. And they watched. They saw. They saw me awkwardly pull myself toward the edge of the pull. With each lap, the pool seemed to get longer and longer. The edge got father and farther. And when I launched off of the wall, my breath became hard and terrified, and the water seemed to fill me, and I couldn't breathe.


It's funny how something as simple as an hour of swimming laps can bring back the nightmares you barely even knew you had. But I guess life is like that.

Not just swimming, of course. There have been a few people I've been dealing with who treat me like a problem they plan to fix. Like a project, someone they plan to make happy so that they can feel better about themselves. This is frustrating to me. I want to tell them these things, but when I start on the things that make me get mad, well, shit, I get pretty mad. And pretty soon I'd be yelling at them, grinning and swearing, and I'd scare them, and I'd fail with someone new, only this time it wouldn't be because of some handicap, I'd just gone and done it myself because I'm stupid and stubborn. So I just smile pleasantly and try to shrug them off. Even though I want to strangle them, close off their air and show them what a day in my life is like.

My instructors say I just have to relax, and that they'll help me. "Relax" is a foreign word to me, I've never relaxed a day in my goddamn lige, but I believe them. They seem nice, and I think they can help me become better. Part of me wants to quit that class, but, no, I won't. I'd come back from a battle defeated, and those around me would grimace and think of me as just that much more retarded. They'd see how torn up I was over my inability to swim, and they'd laugh, because they don't know how deep the wounds are, they don't know how deep it goes. But that's okay. One day, they'll see me, and I'll be something great, maybe. Maybe a writer, or maybe I'll work in the FBI. Somewhere where all these great ideas can get out before I burst. I try to ignore my urges, I try to be great because I want to do something good for this world, not out of bitterness, not out of some vicious grudge with God and the world and nature. I think that's a battle I'm winning. I'm trying to remember what peace is, to remember that it exists, and maybe I can find it, maybe living won't be warfare anymore. Maybe.

Anyways, that's Monday. Was this too serious? Too psychological? Are you terrified of me now, wary of these problems that seem so, well, just plain fucked up? I hope not. I sure would hate to have fucked up something else.

I promise to return to the silly booger jokes and politically incorrect humor next time.

Friday, January 21, 2005

The Most Ridiculous Post Ever

I challenged Noah to a ridiculous-off, in which we each make the most ridiculous post possible and see who wins. This is what I came up with in sixteen minutes:

EDIT: Well, I totally beat Noah and violated a few FCC rules. Here's a link to his Xanga, where you can see his entry:

So anyway today I wake up in my neighbor's tree really hung over and wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks, a Red Sox hat, and one broken stilt still attatched to my right foot. My neighbor's down there on his lawn shouting at me so I start throwing chesnuts at him and I told him his breast implants looked like clumps of mashed potatoes and mayonnaise in flesh sacks, and while he was vomiting in disgust I made my daring escape by climbing down the tree, whipping him a few time with my keys, and running awkwardly away with the stilt dragging behind me.

It's about that time that a serious lollipop jones comes over me, and I know the only place to get a decent lolly is from that sweaty Mexican dude at the Zoo outside of the Panda Pit.

I swear to God he puts something in them. One time I tracked him down, put a leather glove on my hand, soaked it in gasoline, lit it on fire, and told him he could either tell me the truth or he could get a face full of my patented amateur wrestling move Fist of Fire, which is the sole reason Tony Fensiozi only has one eyebrow now, but I did get rid of that mole. Then I looked around and I realized I was standing in a kid's playground and was actually just threatening a ceramic Ronald McDonald statue. I gave him a good right hook just cause he was givin me the stink eye, and even though I broke two knuckles I'm pretty sure he knows who's boss.

So it turns out that I'm banned from the zoo because one account of this one time when I tried to shoot a few of the monkeys, which apparently is illegal in our stupid state, even if they're ugly monkeys, so I get a disguise ready by making a mask out of a Santa hat by cutting holes for the eyes and pulling it way down over my head, only I didn't know exactly where my eyes would be, so I just cut a shitload of holes and assumed two of them gotta line up. Then to throw them off further I took my shirt off and painted SANCHO PANZA on my chest so they'd think I was Sancho Panza, but I couldn't do it in the mirror so I painted it upside down but it looked rightside up to me and the rest of the world can just go and fuck itself, I'm Sancho fuckin Panza you worthless bunch of fucktards.

So I show up at the Zoo only it turns out that the Santa hat I made my mask out of was used as a stocking once and was full of chocolates, so what's left of the chocolates melt in the sun and the next thing I know I have a serious cloud of flies swarming around my head and it's hard to see but fuck it, I know which way the Zoo is, I can smell those fuckin monkeys and their faggot commie pinko propaganda. I come up and ask for a ticket and lady says I have to pay her some money or something, so I just start yelling "SANCH-O PAN-ZAY, SANCH-O PAN-ZAY!" and she lets me in because some retard asylum had a tour and she thought I was one of them. That was cool with me cause maybe I could catch up with them and steal one of those Rascals cause I've always wanted one of those, and maybe one of those helmets.

I maneuver my way through the crowd over to the Lolly Stand by telling a few people I have a bomb and they get out of the way, and then I get up there to get my lolly and damned if John Elway himself is sellin lollies today because he needs a job, and we do our secret handshake and make with the awesome official John Elway butt bump which gives plus 10 to agility and plus 4 to spirit. Then I start lickin my Lolly which is hard cause I gotta get it through one of the holes in the Santa Hat, and as I'm doin so I look over into the Panda Pit and one of the fat Chinese fucks is just starin at me and then I'll be fucked if that bastard didn't give me the finger. So I threw the first thing I had in my hand at it which turned out to be the Lolly and the damned thing just gets stuck right behind that panda's ear.

Well, shit, I wasn't gonna let some smart ass panda have the lolly that had spent half the day and violated several restraints getting, so I jump down in the pit and start to throw down my awesome elbow drops on that stupid marsupial or whatever. Maybe it's a fish or a whale, I don't care, but then he and his kin come out and have me cornered but then John Elway jumps down into the pit and does one mad sweet roundhouse that downs all the bastards and I pry my Lolly off of that crippled panda and stick it in my mouth and even though it has hair on it it's the sweetest damn Lolly I ever had.

Then Elway takes out a pack of brewskies and we crack open a few Silver Bullets and hit the brothels and the next thing I know I wake up in a dumpster in Rio with my face covered in roofing tar.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Paris Hilton Update

I'm devoting one post entirely to a single Paris Hilton quote:

"I went to Wal-Mart for the first time. I always thought they sold wallpaper. I didn't realize it has everything. You can get anything you want there for really, really cheap."

Holy shit.

Ho... holy shit. And how much money has been spent on this... "girl?" Money that could be literally spent on ANYTHING else and would be a better use of it? Like, fixing the nation's septic problems, or painting Oklahoma's mailboxes a lovely shade of fuschia. These things are worthless, but at least they aren't actively working against the progress of humanity. Shit, give me her money. No... wait. I usually find myself actively working against the progress of humanity one way or another.

The Prodigal Son Returns

Well, boys n girls, time for school again, something we've all looked forward to since our drinking problems became so uncontrollable that we need an excuse to stop. Right? Sure I am.

I returned to my apartment expecting to find it sterile and empty, being that we cleaned the living shit outta that messy fucker right before we left. However, Tyler and Richard apparently used it as a crucial way point in their return trip from the Rose Bowl, so it looked like an overdressed hobo had exploded in there, but not before making lots of lots of dirty dishes and ordering what HAD to be at least four pizzas. Now THAT'S a hobo who sure know how to multi-task.

So immediately I felt appalled and violated, a thing which most people don't feel until at least the second class. I got the trauma over early, though, so, good for me...? Richard and Derek with both there, having been cheerfully living in actual garbage for so long that Somolians would vocally object. They instantly demanded hugs, but I left with my parents to go eat with my brother, his girlfriend, and her mom from Spain, at a restaurant where the outside patio had several grackles who loved to both eat and then promptly shit in your food. The ambience was charming.

I then lived the life of a superhero: lots of video games by day, a deep miasma of alcoholism by night. I'm sure someone made up that superhero at some point in time. I ran into my ol' buddy Jameson, the only guy who has a voracious love of whisky equivalent to my own, and over a period of four days we punished our livers like SM whores and gave new meanings to the word "hammered." Eventually even Jasper, that sterling model of virtue whom all children and religious authorities adore, criticized my fun, but it was cool, I told him to eat shit or something.

If you haven't seen the Sin City trailer, you're missing out on something awesome indeed.

Got a lot of neato classes, all of which seem... surprisingly... fun. I know, it's madness, but it's true. For instance, one of my classes is Eroticism in 18th Century England, and if you think it's a bunch of dudes in tricorner hats going down on some ho in a poofy skirt, you're almost right, but not quite, back then they called their ho's ladies, and only slapped them occasionally. By far what I'm most excited about is swimming, which may confuse you who have seen me with my shirt off because I have skin so incredibly white it reflects the light of a thousand suns and BLINDS all who dare look upon it. I'm like Zeus, only instead of lightning I've got... foor odor? Something? I don't know. But, yes, I will be taking my shirt off voluntarily in front of groups of people twice a week. I'm the biggest dude there, which is cool, and I plan to swim in the off-days so I'll probably be the fastest. I'll make them call me WHITE LIGHTNING (guitar solo). I like swimming, though, because it'll tone my knees and will turn me into a wood-carved adonis of destruction. You can expect a lot of "I will chase you down and powder your bones with my teeth, worthless mortal," once I lose about four pounds, which theoretically may be the only fat on me, but that itself in unacceptable. The required ass-naked showers will also invite me into the world of classic locker-room stunts that all my wrestling buddies had and I missed out on. For instance, the time Derek put his penis on Marc to prove his honor, or the time Jimmy nailed Marc in the kidneys and he fell down and his nads fell out of his shorts and touched the cement floor, causing him to leap up shrieking "IT'S COLD! IT'S COLD!" I sincerely feel inadequate for not having taken this young man's journey of homoerotic sexual molestation. It'll be GREAT!