Aaron's
List Film: A Christmas Story Game: Grand Theft Auto- Vice City Music: Junction 18- You're My Angel Text: Contrary to popular belief, reading is bullshit Activity: I've been sitting around a lot lately, if that counts Anticipating: Video Madness Spring
Semester 2004
Brandon's
List Film: Indiana Jones Game: The real game of LIFE Music: The Verve- Bittersweet Symphony Text: The Lord of the Rings Activity: Cleaning my mess of a room Anticipating: Getting a haircut!
beautiful
narcissus
was the adorable result of an unconventional
relationship between a ninja and a rare giant
krayt dragon... and a butterfly. It is rumored
that along with being crafty, extremely agile,
and having a venomous sting, he believes that he
too, like a certain R. Kelly, can fly.
wandered into Something Like Tripe in a drunken
stupor one night and when he sobered up decided
that it was a nice place and never went back
home. His history is a mystery to all who know
him, and in fact the years of hard living have
made his history a mystery to himself as well.
Note: This is a
fairly rough count, which only counts once for
each post, no matter how many times a single
post might mention one of the above mentioned
topics. So really, we are far more pathetic than
these counters might lead you to believe. Hard
to fathom, yes, I know.
Also: Brandon
explains the menstruation with, "I think it
hits you harder as you grow up. You realize that
whenever you get pissed at a chick, it's usually
'cause of that." He then proceeded to
exclaim, "WOW. God dammit, man," at
something disgusting that I said.
Google Search
Queries...
Retards, three toed sloth, Jedi Outcast,
booger, Butterfly, wookie, something, nothing,
joe, monkey pictures, cartoon dogs, train
lyrics, don, cry, come, New York subway map,
potato salad recipes, shaolin temple, shaolin
monks, shaolin kung fu, time travel, mucus,
snot, phlegm, texas chainsaw massacre, costumes,
learn to fly, silly monkey hats, ugadi
greetings, fat people, noah's ark, crazy people
I live in a hotel style dorm here at school, which basically means that rooms run on the right and left sides of the hall. My wing happens to be co-ed, which you'd think would translate well - hot chicks dancing through the halls in their panties with a 40 in each hand, ready to get on their knees at the drop of a feather. At a normal college, sure. But this is the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth, which if you didn't know looks too fucking similar to the mental ward in "A Clockwork Orange" to go without mentioning.
Such is life. Anyway, what I'm not doing a very good job of getting at is the fact that my hall isn't a paradise filled with naked girls and Long Island Iced Teas, but rather a chasm inhabited by nerds. At first glance you'd probably say, "Hey Brandon, you'd fit right in!" No my friends. No matter how much Star Wars trivia I can answer, my cool factor will never shirk, and I will never be able to relate to guys like these. Not a day goes by when I don't hear the savage yells of lonely virgins berating a Playstation 2, or their unsuccessful attempts at keeping a LAN party civil on a Thursday night at 2 in the morning.
Walking past their doors has become an endurance test thanks to the God forsaken odor that permeates throughout. Ever slaughtered a family of hamsters, only to leave their corpses rotting in the corner of your basement for weeks on end? No? Me either, but I'd bet all the naked pictures of my best friend's sister that that stench comes pretty fucking close to smelling like that. They're Asian, so I'd guesstimate that they don't shower very often, which could be a contributing factor. I know for a fact that they don't wash their hands after unloading a #2. You uncover a lot when you go to a school that forgoes putting butter in all of their food for laxatives. Gross, but true. I might be asking too much from a bunch of guys that are totally enamored with children's Japanese animation, but come on. It's the 5th week of school and they've done things that would make Star Trek fans gape in horror and scream, "Fuck no!"
After ranting and raving, I've come to the conclusion that the only way to fix this is by taking matter's into my own hands. So, within the next few days, "the university" will be leaving letter's on their doors notifying them of the potential health hazard they present. Rest assured, yellow tape and stickers warning of contamination covering their doors will soon follow.
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Thursday, September 25, 2003 |
They say that the true key to happiness is working at a job that you truly enjoy. First of all, what a crock of shit. Seriously, the true key to happiness would be marrying a nymphomaniac with beer flavored tits and a pee hole that shoots out rolled up 20 dollar bills every time you swipe your credit card through her lips. Yeah, those lips. Second of all, “who’s they”, you might ask. Well shit if I know, but they tell you all kinds of things. They say that every cigarette takes 14 minutes off your life. They say that masturbating reduces the risk of prostate cancer in guys and the risk of finding yourself with duct tape over your mouth, locked in the trunk of a car flying off a pier at 3 in the morning for women. Naw, I’m just kidding. Only going to the kitchen and getting your husband a beer, a delicious steak dinner, and a lap dance from the hot next door neighbor (or at the very least a better telescope) can reduce that particular risk, ladies.
But anyway, if having a job you enjoy really is the key to happiness than I think I know why so many people are unhappy with their lives. There’s no such thing as a “Blow Job Tester”. Man, I sure would like to be one. Either that or a priest, they say that priests are getting theirs these days. See, there they go again, saying things again. They say that every time a fly lands it pukes. They say that dogs lick their balls because they can. They say don’t talk to that Aaron kid, he works in a bell tower and has a problem with anal fissures…I hear they’re contagious. Really? I had no idea! Swear to Christ, they’re like an epidemic now a days. Can’t even walk down the street without seeing at least…shit…5, 6 people with anal fissures. Hell, you probably know someone with them. No way. Yes way, I mean…it’s not like you’re talking to one of them or anything, but it’s possible, you know, that…uh, that you uh…know someone. Oh wow. Yeah it sucks, I mean, it must suck. They probably hurt a lot, huh? Yeah, they really do.
I’ve decided then that if I want to be really happy I think that I’m going to go into the smut peddling business. Look at it this way, I get to watch all the porn I want, make money by letting people see naked people, something you can do in the shower or if you get your wife to get you that telescope for free, and I get to run for governor of California! But my biggest motivation is the fact that I receive so much pleasure from porn. And I don’t mean at my own hand, although that is a contributing factor. I’m talking about when I’ve had Kazaa open all night long, open it up the next day and see that over the course of 12 hours or so I’ve uploaded about 50 pornographic videos of various lengths and types of perversion. I get this warm feeling (because I haven’t changed my boxers since the last time I watched those videos) knowing that a bunch of 12 year old kids, or maybe just one really horny 12 year old kid, got their porn from me. Also, I find it very interesting that so many people were into horse cock. I thought I was the only one! Sure, I know I’m still a freak but you know what they say, misery loves company. On that note, if you’re interested come on down, I’ve got a really thick 20 incher waiting for you. Yep, right here on Kazaa.
To go off on a bit of a tangent, this post is particularly deceptive. Not because I’m lying about the fact that I want to spend the rest of my life selling porn to middle schoolers, that’s entirely true. There’s nothing I’d like to dedicate my life to more than corrupting the impressionable youth of our nation through big shiny penises and greasy vaginas, golden showers and bukkake facials, tubgirl.com and goatse.cx. At least we could finally stop blaming videogames. Hold on one second, I’ve gotta find a tissue. Or twenty.
Okay back. Had to throw away a pair of pants real quick. Anyway, the post is deceptive in the fact that it looks like it was written way more easily than it actually was. I’ll bet you’re thinking that finding all kinds of statistics about the pornography industry is really easy. Yeah, well you’re sadly mistaken, you Kazaa junkie. By the way, start sharing your files or I’ll cut you off, fucking leech. That’s right. I know you’d do anything to get “Porn – VERY HOT girl masturbating for 16 min panty party”, yeah, even share your files. Mwahaha. I’ve got you by the balls! Proverbially, of course. Mmm. Yes.
Speaking of having somebody by the balls, I’ve got a video with that in it too. It’s 570 megs, but totally worth it. You should see the load this guy shoots on his friend. And he just eats it all up too. Hey, hey, I’m not gay or anything! This is just a study in other species. Speaking of other species, I’m convinced that the Japanese came to earth in a dildo shaped space ship, crashed on Japan, and after the crash the only thing they could remember was that phallic shape, but couldn’t remember what it was. So they reproduced smaller models of their spacecraft and proceeded to commit crimes against God and nature ever since. I mean, I don’t particularly care what they do to each other's buttholes but come on, leave the poor vegetables alone! They didn’t ask for that! Oh, you’re trying to reunite the corn on the cob with its lost family members? That’s sweet of you, but still depraved, and by the way, SARS? Yeah, that was me. But leave it to you oversexed fuckers to use it as an excuse to cohabitate like a trailer park family. I swear, they’ll turn anything into a sex toy. Yes, even that. Ugh, please, put the bloody eggbeater away.
If you doubt my presumptions about the Japanese culture’s libido, just look at their masterpiece opus: hentai. No other culture has created something so absolutely repugnant as the Japanese. Jane Goodall tried to do it to the gorillas, but they showed her with a little secret weapon they had been cooking up called AIDS. Nowhere else but hentai do you find such a sickening obsession with spiked tentacles, casual rape, and melon sized heads with eyes that fill up half of them. Except of course in my Kazaa shared folder.
Wow my update train got seriously derailed back there. When I find the bastard who put the penny on the tracks I’m going to cut off all of his downloads. He’s going to have to get his low quality free porn somewhere else. Ooh, what a perfect segue for getting back on task. If you want a more concrete reason for getting into the porn industry, just look at some of these statistics. The size of the pornography industry worldwide is 57 billion dollars, 12 billion alone in the United States! Internet porn itself is worth $2.5 billion! Porn revenue is larger than all combined revenues of all professional football, baseball, and basketball franchises. US porn revenue exceeds the combined revenues of ABC, CBS, and NBC (6.2 billion). Shit, sex does sell. I’m getting naked right now and going out to get a price tag tattooed on each buttock and my elbow! What...you don't find elbows sensual? Pff. Freak.
Wait a second, it gets better! Child pornography generates $3 billion annually. I’m hoping to get that number up to at least, at least, $15 billion. Although if I double that throughout the span of my career it really wouldn’t impress me much. You’ve got the look but do you got the touch? Well don’t get me wrong, yeah I think you’re all right but that won’t keep me warm on a long, cold, winter night. But this “orgasm by fire” video I’m downloading probably will.
Wait, wait, it gets better! There are 372 pornographic pages on the internet. There are 68 million pornographic search engine requests daily. There are 1.5 billion pornographic peer to peer downloads, that not even counting downloads from websites. Guess what? It gets better! There are 116 million daily Gnutella network “child pornography” requests alone. There are 26 children’s cartoon characters featured on thousands of pornographic websites (including Pokemon, Scooby Doo, and yes, even Alvin and the Chipmunks. But those are rare and you’re going to have to download those from me directly). 89% of solicitations in chat rooms are sexual solicitations of youth and I’d like to congratulate myself for contributing at least 88 of those 89% of those. Guess what my goal for next year is? That’s right. Kill everyone. Uh, whoops, I meant “kill everyone in that 1%”. “Kill everyone in general” is the year after, but try to keep that on the down low.
But wait, it gets better! The average age of first pornographic exposure on the internet is 11 years old. The largest consumer of internet pornography is the 12-17 age group. 90% of 8-16 year olds have viewed porn online while doing homework. Wait! It gets better! All this porn is going to make me fucking rich, and it doesn’t get any better than that!
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Sunday, September 21, 2003 |
As many of you know, for the past few weeks I've been living in a lovely section of New York, commonly referred to as "The Bronx", although more often called "that pit stain up town" or "that really ethnically diverse/violent area". If there's one place that's dirtier in NYC it's Harlem. Most of the subways don't even stop there. I'm not kidding. They just fly right by. You have to take a special subway if you want to go there. It's called The Drug Addiction and Certain Failure Expressway and is operated by Charon, ferryman of the river Styx. After living in the Boogie Down and spending quite a lot of time in mid and downtown Manhattan, I've come to the realization that I am damn glad I didn't bring my car. If there's one thing that can whip me up into a fury it's bad driving conditions. I'm not talking about crappy weather, little to no visibility, cruddy roads, or the like. I'm talking about when I get stuck behind some dickhole or perhaps even dickholes that just don't know how to drive. Sure, they can stay on their side of the road ... usually ... but I haven't been able to find any solid proof that they know that there's a gas pedal down there.
I don't really get mad easily, I can usually take things with a grain of salt. Things that normally make people tear their hair out only get a little "jerk off" gesture from me. However, driving...well driving is another story altogether. I can go from complete sedation to absolute super freak in the time it takes for me to open the door of the car and put it into drive. Sometimes I'll be in a lather even before that, if I'm running late, or my personal favorite, all the doors are so frozen that I have to punch around the edges numerous times in order to break up the ice, not to mention my knuckles. Now, I might be able to relax after that sort of thing if it weren't for the people going 2 miles an hour right after I pull out of my driveway. It seems that if the road is even slightly damp people suddenly think that their vehicles will just go spiraling out of control. Hah. If only. Crash and burn, scum.
Road rage is often chalked up to be one of the biggest problems of today. First of all, people need to realize that getting blown to smithereens by nuclear missiles is a little bit more of a problem than somebody giving you the middle finger at a stop light. Second of all, people need to get the hell out of my way. My favorite individuals on the road are those that can see me screaming at the top of my lungs, flailing my limbs, and exploding my head, who then decide to pull over to the side of the road and let me pass. Usually by that point, just going faster will not do it for me, because then I still have to follow them, constantly wallowing in their stench. But if they get out of my way and I can pass them, well then I can convince myself that they have magically left this earth and are being brutally decapitated by monstrous cadavers in Dimension X.
There have been times I've been yelling to myself so loudly and so much that by the time I get to where I'm going I'm hoarse. I know the people in front of me can hear me. Hell, everybody in a 10 mile radius can hear me. Just recently, I was driving up to an intersection, ready to make my left hand turn when the light turns yellow. The kiss of death. The shmuck in front of me suddenly has some sort of mental breakdown, becomes completely indecisive and just hangs out in the middle of the road, sort of half turned but not sure if he's going to commit to anything. Why do people do that? When you're sitting in an intersection like that and nobody is coming, you must go! That's one of the laws of the universe. Trust me, I read the manual. I didn't want to get fucked somewhere along the way just because I didn't read the manual. Or rather, I would like to get fucked somewhere along the way, and was hoping that the manual contained some helpful hints. Anyway, does this guy want the light to turn red and have thousands of speeding automobiles come flying through his car ending his measly existence and painting the unforgiving tar red with his vital fluids? Please, if you're going to kill yourself like that, do it in an intersection where I'm not waiting to turn. I don't need to wait while the paramedics play scavenger hunt for your appendages all over the road.
I know he could hear me saying "Go. Go. Go, you fucker. You fucker," and yet he refused to go. That fucker. Finally his brain jumpstarts and he completes the turn just as the light turns red, leaving me to wait for an entire 2 minutes. You might not understand it, but that's practically eternity squared. If I could make that any more italicized, I would. That's how long it is. Fortunately, after the light turned green I fast and furioused my way to catch up with that jerk and then got caught behind him going exactly the speed limit for something around 8 miles. I think I might start carrying a gun in my glove compartment. I think I'll be able to fit it next to the flask of whiskey. No...not so that I can shoot other drivers, but so that I can end my own pitiful misery. And hopefully send my car careening into theirs, causing a grand explosion of fire, twisted metal, and boiling human flesh.
Another thing I don't understand is why people suddenly think that it's okay to go below the speed limit. It's not like going the posted speed is against the law, if they wanted you to go slower the posted speed would be lower. If they're at least going the speed limit I really have no right to kill them, although I'm sure I could think of a pretty good excuse assuming they ever found the body, but when people drive below the speed limit there's no stopping me. The worst is when people go 10 miles under when the weather is nice and the road is as dry as a dead lizard on a rock. What is the reason for it?! How can somebody justify that? One day this summer I followed some soccer mom who thought it would be nice to go for a pleasant, leisurely drive ... in the middle of rush hour. I swear, I was about to go through the damned purple Jeep Grand Cherokee. There was no more passing illegally or letting her pull off to the side, she had her chance. If I was getting past her, she was going to die. I just kept zeroing in on this bumper sticker, the point I imagined my car burrowing through at light speed, causing a rip in the time space continuum and tearing her eyeballs out, dragging them through hyperspace. The sticker said "Simsbury Lacrosse: The Home of the Trojans." What a slut. Lacrosse? Oh...so that's what they're calling it nowadays. When I finally got the chance to pass her I yelled, "Suck on this lacrosse, bee-otch." A simple "bitch" would no longer suffice, and I decided that speaking in her lingo would help her understand that I had had quite enough with her traffic antics. Lacrosse. What happened to "dick"? What was so wrong with that?
Things wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't so concerned about breaking the law. I won't pass somebody unless it's in a legal passing zone. I won't pass on the shoulder, although I do greatly admire those who use that technique. These are things that could greatly help me in my driving escapades each day. It really comes down to a problem with my moral character. I tell ya, if I wasn't such an upstanding citizen I wouldn't have to kill so many people.
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Tuesday, September 16, 2003 |
The minute hand ticked once and the midnight hour was upon us. The darkness suddenly seemed thicker and we were enveloped in it as if it was a heavy blanket. Persistent raindrops pattered against the windows. Eyes glistened with deviance, and sparkling grins defined by well placed teeth after years of orthodonture flashed in the night. The conversation was marked with brevity, with few words exchanged before a satisfying conclusion was reached. Yes, we would do it, but it would have to be done quickly before time wore on further. The world seemed to slow down around us as we made the necessary preparations and our clothing lazily dropped to the floor. Excitement reverberated through us and we fed off each other’s energy. The sound of an aluminum can cracking along with its accompanying hiss of leaking air pressure echoed in the room. A giggle slipped from a pair of ready lips, as the door slowly closed and the deadbolt could be heard clicking into place. The games had begun.
At first there was nothing, and then… there was mud sliding. You know what they say, if there’s grass on the field, play ball, and if there isn’t, go to the backyard and play in the mud. But I’m not talking about taking rides up the hershey highway, I’m talking about the real kind of mud sliding. The only true American past time. Baseball has stolen that title in popular culture, but only because it combines the act of sliding through the dirt with the hitting of balls. But if it’s okay with you, I like to keep my mud sliding and my ball hitting separate affairs.
That’s right, last night at the stroke of midnight a group of 9, by definition a fellowship, poured through the hallways like the running of the bulls and exploded into the brisk night time air. The monsoon of most of the night had trickled down into a steady drizzle, making the sport that much more hardcore, given the dearth of lubricant. As if sliding naked through a mixture of crab grass, rocks, and mud in the middle of the night wasn’t hardcore enough as it is. I don’t know if you ever read any of the handouts they gave you during health class, but if I remember correctly, one of them said that you should never attempt to dip in mud unless you have lots of lubricant and condoms. And we didn’t have either! No, we are the all stars, the sport’s ambassadors to the common man and our newfound lack of skin is our badge. And that intense night would leave us as legends, since that’s usually how people are seen by the public after doing something retarded and getting in trouble for it.
Mud sliding should be a college core curriculum requisite. I just can't get enough of it (which seems inconceivable, but we live in a world of deep and enduring mystery). Granted, you have to be pretty open to getting absolutely filthy and waking up the next day in a world of pain, but I’m a fairly open minded guy. My only real rule in this category is that I won't slide into anything that may end up with me getting bitten or burned. So for example I would not go mud sliding into some kind of burning magma hyena. But in all seriousness, you should not be allowed to die, even if you’re 250 years old, until you’ve done it at least once. And I guarantee you that once you do it once you’ll want to do it again, but that’s too bad because now you’re allowed to die and generally when you’re 250 years old you’re dead. And if you’re not I’ll personally do you the service because you’re a fucking freak.
However, I only wish that somebody had told me that all standard laws of physics apply to you and your body when you’re mud sliding, you goddamn apes. If you ever want hard, scientific proof that you are not invincible or anywhere near the threshold of invincibility, go for a little mud slide. But I’ve always found injury a laugh riot, like when I used to pretend to kill babies in front of my neighbors. I mean, that was hilarious, and it even stayed hilarious when the police came and started cracking me about the neck and knees with their batons. But that’s a story for another day! Anyway, my back looks like I was given a face down, all anal, blue-light special by a rabid wolverine and my friend, holy shit my friend, well he looks like my roommate had his way with him. This guy is tough, I’m really surprised that he’s not balled up in a corner somewhere crying and trying to comfort his swollen prostate in vain. That seems to be the common reaction, at least in my experience. Seriously, after looking at my feet I tried to remember for a great length if I had been mud sliding through a trench with row upon row of razor sharp teeth and a bottomless appetite for toes. But forget about those minor injuries, and trust me, you want to go mud sliding. I certainly hope that you enjoy it, but if you don't, there's really nothing I can do for you. Of course, if you read about the aforementioned war wounds, and then still decide to try mud sliding yourself, your mind is a malleable lump of fucking play-dough, and you'll believe anything your dumbass is able to read. Hell, you're probably a scientologist.
The Internet is a lot like TV in terms of its mind controlling abilities. So of course you think that mud sliding is a great idea now, probably because of the ambiguous meaning of the first paragraph that could have been easily interpreted to be about sex and your brain will make some sort of strange connection between mud and sex. Don’t worry, a sexual reaction to dirt is fairly normal, I can’t reach orgasm unless I’m using sandpaper. And I know that sandpaper isn’t quite the same as sand but the connection is there. Also on the Internet, I can say whatever the hell I want without any repercussions at all. I can say things like “Hulk Hogan is a washed up piece of shit and probably enjoys spooning with Randy Macho Man Savage with a piece of Slim Jim tied around his nuts,” without Hulk Hogan ever knowing it and driving his motorcycle here and over my head because he can’t read. Hulk Hogan is a washed up piece of shit and probably enjoys spooning with Randy Macho Man Savage with a piece of Slim Jim tied around his nuts. See, so there, no motorcycle. Also, nice mustache.
Another great thing about mud sliding is its ability to reduce its participants to complete animals. Something in the mud promotes devolution, and by the end of any session the group has generally reverted to somewhere before humanity reached primate status. The devolution process starts right away. At the very beginning everybody’s become shrieking, over-excited preteen girls. Towards the middle, everybody becomes shrieking, over-excited spider monkeys, which by the way, is probably how the piles of shit ended up all over the bathroom floor. Finally, at the end, everybody is nothing more than your average Wendy’s employee, struggling to barely crawl out of the primordial soup of life, not to mention get my fucking order right. NO GODDAMNED MAYONAISSE, alright?! Seriously, I think somewhere in Wendy’s mission statement there’s a line that reads, “All burgers must be thoroughly soaked in a sloppy mixture of 2 parts ketchup, 1 part mustard, and 28 billion parts mayonnaise in order to promote viscosity. Valued customers are apt to choke on quarter pounders if they can’t accidentally swallow them whole if they hold them near their mouth and by near I mean within a sixty-mile radius. With love, Dave Thomas.” I’m convinced that in Dave Thomas’ coffin is a jar of mayonnaise buried with him. That way the maggots won’t choke on his eyeballs when they’re eating lunch at the only subterranean Wendy’s.
But anyway, back to what I was saying about our mud inspired animal status. The security guard wouldn’t let us back into the dorm because we looked like the Swamp Thing, either that or he was sick of getting his bacon double cheeseburger ruined by a thick coating of warm mayonnaise and didn’t want anything to do with Wendy’s employees. So we went back outside and found a huge puddle, which we then proceeded to submerge and roll around in. It wasn’t big enough for our entire fellowship though, so we began to fight over it. The puddle’s strange power had a hold over us and we lusted after it greedily. Friends became enemies and a bitter struggle broke out for ownership of the puddle and it’s power. The Dark Lord’s reach grew with every minute that one of us was splashing in the beautiful darkness. It was a constant power struggle. As one of us wrestled power from another, the rest of us would withdraw ourselves, and a green glint flickered under our heavy lids. Almost spider-like we looked, crouched back on our bent limbs, with our protruding eyes. The future of the fellowship now rested on the muck of some mud, waver just a little and all would be lost. Funny that so much fear and doubt be suffered over such a little puddle.
At the night’s end, we all agreed it was probably the best one since we got into college. Granted, we haven’t been here very long so it’s not saying too much, but if you also consider that it was still awesome after we all realized we were covered in open, infected flesh wounds, slept through our first classes today, and got written up and scheduled for judicial hearings, then you must understand how truly fantastic it was. Trust me, once the pictures get back and I send them to my worry wracked mother, it will all be made worthwhile. Until next time, drink lots of water, pretend you’re hilarious, and always live for mud sliding.
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Friday, September 12, 2003 |
I was right when I said a couple posts ago that college would bring all kinds of great experiences, and I haven't even gotten raped in the shower yet! So I can only imagine the fun to come! If you go to college you know what I'm about to speak of, it is the stuff of dreams, of legends. It was the once forbidden fruit and now we have stumbled upon its hidden garden where we can have our fill and even have the luxury to pick and choose. Despite the striking similarities, I am not talking about frisbees or horny guys.
However, horny guys are a very direct result of this wonderful thing that college has indirectly blessed me with. I think you know what I'm talking about now...thongs. I don't know if you've noticed, but THEY'RE EVERYWHERE. I went to a highschool full of sluts and cunts with thongs flossed up their asscracks, but there was not nearly the percentage of thongs as there are here. I'd say 1 in 3 girls are sporting the thong, one of the others isn't wearing any underwear at all, and the last one doesn't put on any clothes of any kind. This is college, and I have come to love it.
I, in fact, have hypothesized that somewhere in the student handbook is a short passage mandating the wearing of a thong at least 4 days a week, along with designated "Sing a Happy Song, hey! It's an All Thongs, Day!" days where every girl has to wear one, and if not, they either have to find one or take their bra off. However, many girls often get caught here since they don't wear bras either. The no bra rule is not in the dresscode yet, but I imagine next year or the year after it will be there, along with the addition of mandatory miniskirts on windy days.
As much of a good thing as all this floss is, there are some serious consequences that any self respecting 18 year old male needs to look out for and avoid like clamydia. Which is, at times, one of the said consequences. A well placed thong should actually be something that fills a man with fear instead of penile girth. You see, spying a couple shoelaces fitting snugly around an attractive girl's hips almost immediately causes a man's self defense mechanisms to go haywire and usually makes for an embarrassing pants situation. You'll start to say stupid things like, "I know you want to go out with me, but I understand, you have to wash your hair," and "I know you want to go out with me, but I understand, you're father died and your uncle died last week," and "Roses are red, violets are blue, I like spaghetti, let's fuck." These are not the sorts of things you want to do in order to get that thong on your bedroom floor, ever. The only thing on your floor will be a pool of your own children. And what a waste of life that is. You could be sending them to someplace warm and moist, like a hot shower, like a moonlit blue lagoon, like a secretive hot spring where the girls have beer flavored tits, but instead you're going to throw them all over the cold floor for them to drown in prostate fluid. And being drenched in prostate fluid is no fun, I'm telling you.
A quick aside before I continue. A good friend of mine here at Fordham is from Maine and I've been noticing that when people from Maine are telling you something, they have to tell you that they're telling you something. "So didja check that there lumbahjack contest, ya bastahd. I was pissed, I'm telling you. That Billy Worker sahcked, I'm telling you." But let's get back to the task at hand, since I think we'll all agree, sexy underwear is far more interesting than the Maine dialect, I'm telling you.
Different guys like all kinds of different girls. For example, I like my girls tall, dark, and covered in my semen. You might like them 215 with low self esteem, I don't care (for the record, taking advantage of porkers isn't respectable, but still funny), it's all a matter of personal preference. But no matter what kind of girl you like, it doesn't matter because all girls are essentially the same in the sense that none of them go for the "I like spaghetti, let's fuck" line. So, if you would like to get that thong on the floor of your bedroom, in the bed, on your head, in a box, with a fox, or in that secret drawer full of all the panties you've stolen over the years, you best listen up to some of this advice. I'm no master of kama sutra, by any means, but I'm willing to try. And I think we can all appreciate a good hustle.
Drug deals really are a thrill, I'm telling you.
But like I was saying, I don't profess to be an absolute lady killer. I mean, I'm not black, for chrissake. But I have something that many of you hopeless shmucks don't, and that's experience. After years of painful, heart-wrenching rejection, I've learned exactly what not to do... unfortunately I never seem to remember that when it comes to meeting new girls and end up tripping over that damned spaghetti line. I've said some ridiculous things in my day, many of which have made me an outcast from various social sects. Quotes like, "When I wear my clothes, I wear my clothes!" and "Female newscasters are just women who wanted to be models but were too scared to get naked." However, I've never thought that my life was so worthless that I would utter the phrase, "a/s/l?!" in an AOL instant messenger window.
Okay, that was a lie. But I try not to do it very often.
That's not what this is about though, this is about meeting girls in real life. Many people out there are so out of the social loop that they take desperate measures in order to have any kind of experience with the opposite (or maybe even the same) sex. They of course turn to the easiest alternative, meeting people online. Like a loser. You're above that kind of bunk now, son, just not really but you can try to pretend, it builds self confidence.
A few years ago before I was privileged enough to drive illegally, I had to ride the bus to school. The bus came at an obnoxiously early hour, and in result I was usually in a groggy, stupor like state. However, I do remember a few terrible events that occurred during this ride, one involved having my wrists duct taped, but another that wasn't related. My eyes were finally beginning to focus again and I noticed a gangly, scary kid diagonally across me. For probably a good fifteen minutes he sat there, picking his ears. Each time his finger would emerge from the deep caverns of his ear canal, it would be covered in greasy, chunky balls of ear wax. For fifteen minutes he continued his digging. And every time he came out with a new surprise. I don't think this kid ever cleaned his ears before because every time he pulled his finger out he would look at it and make this face of utter shock, disgust, and even fear. I watched in almost disbelief at the scene. The bus was packed, the kid had to know it, yet he continued burrowing. I recall looking around and seeing everybody in the area peeping over their seats with huge, saucer like eyes, watching the child's every move, like he was a freakish caged animal at a circus side show. This is the type of person who will try desperately with every girl he ever spots, especially if they're wearing a thong. But no doubt he will fail, and after that where is he to turn? To this foolproof guide to romance, of course (important note- guide may not actually be foolproof).
If you are seeking a romantic relationship with a thong clad vixen, or perhaps a public lynching, or plan to subscribe to the spaghetti line school of thought and instantly abandon all sense of personal dignity, you need to ask yourself "what do I want to accomplish?" If you are just out to have fun and meet new people, maybe you do not need to ask yourself these questions. But if you are out to take advantage of some overweight pigs with low self esteem then ask some questions like, "How fat is too fat?", and "If she tries to get away from me should I kill her?" It would probably be helpful if you did to help you manage your expectations. You know, just in case that glutton turns around and starts raping you and strangling you with her XXL g-string, for example. On the other hand, if you seek a serious committed relationship and are comfortable with the fact that you are indeed officially a blight that should be destroyed with absolute intolerance, you need to spend some time (5 minutes or so while you're on the toilet) examining your commitment and expectations. The process of actually committing money or even worse, your soul, to seek a relationship, believe it or not, does make a difference. In many ways, you are saying to yourself, "I am serious about stalking a 13 year old boy who I met at a Pokemon card game tournament and am willing to camp out in the bushes in his backyard, waiting for him to go out to play some ball when I'll show him what 'playing ball' really means." If you do go this route, we suggest you ask yourself the following questions:
How determined am I to commit numerous crimes and earn the contempt of every human being on the planet?
Have I sold my soul the devil already? It's important not to rack up debts with the almighty lord of darkness.
Why am I pursuing a penny whore wearing a thong stained with the seed of half the guys on campus instead of acting like a normal person and not bringing down shame upon my family? Here's a hint, you suck at life.
Why am I so attracted to fat people, boys, and half eaten, maggot infested undead?
Why am I in my mother's body and why does she have a penis?
Does Jesus really hate me and if so should I get rid of this WWJD bracelet?
If I keep the WWJD bracelet but Jesus does indeed hate me, will he come to take the bracelet back? Think about it kids, this is a good situation. You've got Jesus right where you want him. Now's your chance. Ask him out. No...tie him up and carry him away in your pick up truck. That worked really well with that disgustingly obese chick and the steaming, rotting undead. Add a little Christ to your harem of freaks. Maybe some day you could start a carnival. I know a kid with an earwax condition you should talk to.
This is also a good time to examine your own personal goals and aspirations, and figure out why you cry whenever you masturbate. Trust me, that is not normal.
One of the most important things to do when you're picking up girls is stating your intent. That way, everybody knows what they're getting into and there will be no disappointment, resentment, or law enforcement. Besides, most girls wearing thongs and their pants down to their mid-thighs only want to have sex anyway. And most guys have no agenda other than to beat a woman senseless and bring her back to his dank cave where he'll molest her with a bumpy club and leave her outside for the jackals. Shouldn't be too hard to find somebody willing to go home with you. The question is, how hard will it be to get them to leave. That's only a brief lesson, very introductory, but hopefully you'll be able to hunt the thongs with a little more skill and grace from now on. If you need any help from me come to room 105, in the back of the closet, you'll know it's me because I will be white with fear of thongs.
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Monday, September 08, 2003 |
Routine updating has resumed, after a hiatus of unprecedented length. Even so, it was only a little over a week, but damn did it seem long anyway. ...It was lovely. Also, my old email is now pretty much defunct since I can't remember the password and am now on a new computer, so direct all your emails to . If you send anything to my hotmail email I'll never read it and will definitely never reply to it, as opposed to before when there was a snowball's chance in Hell on a December day that I would write back, and I imagine after some time they'll just start getting eaten up by that ever antagonistic Mailer Daemon. Fucking hellspawns, they just don't know when to quit. Right, anyway, there's my new email, so whoever it was sending me the pictures of hermaphrodite midgets, you can resume your smut peddling. But let's get started. Here's the damned update you ravenous jackals, I hope you can finally relax and talk about penii and the usual suspects on the tagboard instead of bitching about content... but please, don't keep your pants on.
You might remember a couple months ago when I was unfortunate enough to get myself involved in going to the movie theater and actually paying money to watch the greatest abomination of this summer known commonly as "The Hulk" I mentioned that I told my girlfriend that I would never see that movie and anybody ever asked I would act like I had just been insulted by their thinking that I would even consider the notion. Well, recently I found myself in the same movie theater, this time paying to watch an entirely different movie, however, my response to those aforementioned situations will remain very much the same.
For the sake of being redundant, because I like redundancy and redundancy is fun, let's be redundant and recap what exactly went on in that first paragraph of my account of my ill-fated viewing of The Hulk. About a month ago my girlfriend and I went to see some movie, and one of the previews was for The Hulk. She whispered in my ear, "Pff...I don't think I'll be seeing that one." Naturally, I responded, "No way!" in between loud, unnatural bursts of forced laughter." Well, it's a damn good thing I got my practice in then because in the coming weeks I have a feeling I'll be using that particular prescripted response a good deal.
Last Thursday, I brushed my teeth, got dressed, and tucked away all of my self-dignity in the closet before I went to pick up my girlfriend so we could see Freaky Friday. She didn't really want to see it, but I forced her. She's normally into only those movies that have lots of sex and explosions. For those of you who can't detect badly masked sarcasm, it was her idea. You see, we were watching TV one day and a preview for Freaky Friday came on. She looked deeply into my eyes, the moonlight reflecting off of her face, and said, "Ooo! Doesn't that look funny! I wanna see that one!" Naturally, I responded, "HELL YEE-AH!" in between loud, unnatural bursts of forced laughter. But if anybody ever asks that I saw it, you can be sure I'll opt to go with the preprogrammed, "What? Dude, you're a fag!" response used generally to disarm and confuse your adversary while at the same time poorly covering up your own insecurities caused because your step uncle used to touch your winkler in the garage when he was supposed to be showing you how to "inspect his drive shaft." That fucking perverted, pedophiliac bastard, preying upon my weakness for automobile repair!
But at any rate, it is indeed interesting how a woman can cause you to lie about seeing a movie you know you will and about wanting to see a movie you don't, which in turn will cause you to lie about seeing a movie you did to her and all your friends and about seeing another movie you did but only to all your friends. I swear, that girl's got some kryptonite that constantly subverts my will tucked away in her daisy dukes. I'm convinced that's the reason she won't let me get my hands up in there.
I decided it would be fun or at the very least a decent space filler to come up with my own version of the major conflict in Freaky Friday. And if you don't think that's a good idea, I don't particularly care. Don't you have some free porn to be downloading? By the way, it really pays to pay for porn, for those of you who don't know. I know, I know, you're getting your rotten vegetables ready for throwing but hear me out. I used to be a firm believer in the free porn only religion, however, after actually paying for visual representations of naked women I have to admit that I'm worshipping a new god. The god of shaved cootchie. You see, you can get shaved cootchie in free porn, however, the ratio of shaved vaginas to bearded ones in free porn is much lower. I mean, with free porn you're lucky if you get some stubbly poon, and let's face it, in the real world that's fucking embarrassing. That's like humping a sheet of sandpaper, which although fun the first few times, generally leads to grotesque scarring. However, with some high quality porn that you actually put down hard earned dollars for, you get your money's worth. Shaved cootchie all around. Let's give it up for shaved cootchie, the dreamers, the valiant few, the true heroes of today's society.
Anyway, for those of you who don't know, the basic story of Freaky Friday is this. Some ugly teenaged slut wannabe named Anna is constantly getting into fights with her mother, Jamie Lee Curtis, and her brother whose name I don't remember but for the purposes of the update we'll refer to him as Spoon. Actually, he's a bigger tool than that, so let's call him Ladel *da dun chh*. They go to a Chinese restaurant and are obnoxiously arguing over a bowl of wantons, so an ancient Manchurian witch puts a curse on Anna and Jamie Lee Curtis. The next day they wake up and their bodies have switched. Jamie Lee Curtis is now an ugly teenaged slut wannabe and Anna is a middle aged woman who was born a hermaphrodite. And you know, it's just like they say, life sucks. Ooh! Which reminds me, Brandon, I saw that tagboard message, and my advice to you my friend is, pay for porn. That hairy shit just isn't doing it for you.
Without further ado, let's get on with this new rendition since I'm sure you'd like the pain to end and I'm pretty sure I've got some payed for porn waiting to be critiqued. And by critiqued I mean covered with my seed. *Ahem* And on that note, the scene opens.
Anna wakes up in her mothers room. In complete shock she gets up and tries to understand the situation. Very shortly she sees herself in the mirror and notices that she now looks like her mother. She also notices that her mother sleeps naked and has a penis. Screaming commences.
Anna: *screams*
In the next room, Jamie Lee Curtis is woken up by the blood curdling shrieks and quickly notices that she is in her daughter's room and in fact, in her daughter's body. Thinking on this development for a second despite the horrifying cries coming from just a room away, she reaches down and pats her crotch. Upon noticing that after 40 years she's finally been blessed with a normal anatomy not to mention a naturally tight ass and a shaved cootchie just asking to break out into the industry of payable porno, she runs out of the house quietly to start a new life for herself. The screaming continues from the other room.
Anna: *screaming, relentlessly*
Ladel is woken by the sound of his mother's unwavering wailing and stumbles into the room. Anna is blindsided and embarrassed that she has been seen, both because she is naked and because... well, I guess that's pretty much why. Let's face it, if you had a penis wouldn't you be ashamed of yourself? I sure know that I am, and I'm not even supposed to be a female by birth. Locker rooms have been difficult. But that might have something to do with the near daily candy bar molestations in the grimey corner of the shower stall. Ugh, talk about Milky Ways. I can't eat Snicker's bars to this day.
Ladel: Mom! What's wrong... with your body?! Anna: Ladel! I didn't know you were interested in joining the Swingers Club! Unfortunately, we're overbooked right now, so see you next fall! *grabs Ladel by the head and swings him around, hurling him into a dresser full of garments good at hiding throbbing erections.* Ladel: *wrestling with a pair of 50 ply grannie panties* OW MOM! You're a dick! *da dun chh* Anna: *reaching under the bed and pulling out a chain saw* That's it, Ladel! You're about to get cut from the team! *da dun chh*
With that, Anna swings wide and lops her unfortunate brother's head off, blood spraying across the mirror which was already covered in blood artfully arranged into phrases such as, "I hate myself and my penis," and "Note To Self: Buy duct tape". Ladel's head rolls across the floor, eerily cackling.
Ladel's head: *gasping for air* I might be dead, but you've still got a penis, freak. Anna: *grinning* Mwaha.
The screen fades to black as the chainsaw can be heard revving loudly.
Now, I realize there may be several plot holes running around blatantly, shouting, "I'm a plot hole, I'm a freakin' plot hole, overanalyze me on the Star Wars message board!" Let me address them one by one. First, I'm sure you're wondering why Jamie Lee Curtis was keeping a chain saw under the bed, and my answer to you, thoughtless readers, is that she has quite obviously taken up lumberjacking as a hobby. Look, she's a hermaphrodite, she's built for that kind of work. Second, how does Ladel cackle and then proceed to speak after getting his head decapitated, making it unable for him to breath let alone talk? Maybe he's the crypt keeper or maybe Aaron just needed a way to get that last chainsaw joke in there. Either way, I'm so very frightened of him.
