Thursday, October 30, 2003 |
Walk towards the light. No…not that light. Or that one. Stop. Stop that. You’re not a moth; you have one particular light you want to go to so stop inching towards the bug zapper. Ignore those other lights, they’ll only distract you. Walk towards the truth. Right, the truth. The only thing that’s ever will be. Hopefully. So maybe it won’t be around forever, but if I were you I’d get on this train while you can and ride it from hell to breakfast. Oh damn it, I’ve confused you, haven’t I? This “truth” metaphor isn’t working out any better than the “light” metaphor, huh? Jesus jumped up Christ, it’s not my fault you’re a goddamned simpleton. Yeah, that’s right…I went there.
So I guess I’m just going to have to tell you outright. What is this “truth”? Toys ‘R’ freakin’ Us is the truth. Yes, the truth is three stories high and has a Ferris wheel inside. I like the truth, I’m never going to lie again. In all my days of lying I never got a frickin’ carnival ride, or even a lousy circus sideshow act complete with pickle jars full of spaghetti labeled “brains”. Go figure. Wait, never mind, you’re not good at that “figuring” stuff.
When I was young, there was one friend I had that I knew would always stick by me. When I was sad, it would pick me up. When I was bored, it would give me something to do. When I was a little down on my luck, it would force upon me overpriced scooter accessories. It always had the best new toys and all the ones I wanted. This friend was the toy store. In particular, Toys ‘R’ Us. I'm sure this story is similar to that of a lot of other children and once children out there. Toy stores were places of innocence, wonder, and of course, tons of toys. Notice I said "were." As far as I'm concerned, toy stores just aren't what they used to be.
I've noticed a disturbing trend that has been increasing over the years. A few years ago I came home in a rage, after waltzing through a Toys R Us to check things out. You never know when you're going to find something cool. Now, it's not as if I hadn’t been in a toy store in like 5 years, at the time, I was still a fairly regular toy store go-er despite my old age. You see, the thing about toy stores is that they always have something for everyone. As a child, they have toys. As an adult, they have the children looking for the toys. It’s amazing what the kids will do for the newest lego. Sure, Furbies worked better in their hey-day, but nobody really wants them anymore. I still like Furbies, though.
That day I had noticed that toy stores were not fun anymore; they were not my best friends. It’s like when your childhood friend moves away in third grade and you hang out again a year later over Christmas vacation and he’s not the same guy you knew before. He thinks Puff Daddy is a smart businessman and good musician. He drinks soymilk and works out all day now. What happened to you, Peter? I liked you before you had muscles and twenty pairs of Timberland boots! What happened…what happened to us?
At the time, I became under the impression that toy stores should just take out the "toy" portion of their title and leave it at "store." Listen, if I want a store I'll go to a friggin store! Now if I want a toy store, take me to a friggin toy store! Such as Toys ‘R’ Us. Well, that would have been the case some years ago, but I was convinced that the old ways were over. No, things change I suppose, and God, I hate change. Don’t believe me? I’ve been wearing the same boxer shorts for 6 days straight. There’s a hole in the back now, from farting, I think.
Toy stores had become just as commercialized as everything else. Instead of having "real" action figures, they have isles of wrestling figures. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's wrestling. A bunch of sweaty guys in small clothing pretending to hit each other and saying stupid things like, "Ima gonna twist you up in a rattlesnake ala mode!" What they should sell is creamed corn wrestling figures. If there’s one thing I love, it’s creamed corn wrestling. A bunch of sweaty guys in small clothing pretending to hit each other and saying stupid things like, “Is this Green Giant or that store bought crap?” and “Thtop it! Of courth it’th Green Giant, you thilly,” while they flick their wrists and spray delicious kernels of creamy corn all over the crowd.
Another thing that disturbed me was believe it or not, Masters of the Universe. I stumbled into the action figures section and saw a huge box full of not 1, not 2, not 7, but 5, yes 5 whole Masters of the Universe action figures. I grabbed the box and barked viciously at all the children who came near me. Then I ran stealthily out of the immediate area and hid in an unvisited corner. I examined the box. No price tag. A devious trick, but I would not be so easily fooled by their intentional carelessness. A secret notice to the low down dirty fink who tried to foil me: be careful where you sit. I ventured back into the action figures section coolly, pretending not to care that people were staring at me like I was carrying a box full of cruddy old action figures. I thought to myself, "Hell, I bet this isn't too much. Just go to the register and buy it. Just buy it. You can cover it. It's not too much, just buy it." I looked at the box for a bit and then Skeletor started saying, "Just buy it. Hey you, just buy it. Buy it! Come on! Gimme all your lovin’, all your hugs and kisses too." Later that year I started seeing a psychologist because I believed that the devil spoke to me on a regular basis.
It was around that time that some freaks tried to draft me into the Simsbury chapter of the “Screwed Up Teenagers of America” Club. That’s where all the queerlings who wander too far from the pack and end up wearing all black and masturbating to the sight of spilled goat’s blood hang out to shave their teeth into points with nail files. Sure, I have a very low opinion of high school, and the sorts of clean, effortlessly beautiful human beings one encounters there. I know that it is a source of torment. And I know that your shit is all tortured, because I've read your poems and seen that rendered skull spinning there on your webpage with the fire on it. I can understand your pain because I was one of the ones making fun of your black coats and eyeliner. I know it's a hellish experience for some, because I made sure to do a damn good job. But who can blame me? Boys just don't wear makeup. And the fact that you have meetings to practically celebrate your oddities makes you worthy of something horrible…like a middle management position at your local McDonald’s for the rest of eternity.
As it turns out, I found a price scanner and the number 69.95 came up on the screen. That’s not a typo, the world really is that ridiculous. I smacked the thing a good one, because as you know, violence is always an appropriate response in the face of the unknown. Still 69.95. In an act of brilliant detective work, I decided that it wasn’t going to change. The mother behind me said, "Heh, buy two." Shut up, you idiot! What kind of a stupid idea is that? I can't afford one, let alone two! Where did you go to school, The Moron Academy for Dumb Housewives? Zing!
For those of you who might not be convinced that toy stores are so bad now, you might just want to visit one yourself. But if you're not going to do that either, check out this interview with a person I actually bothered to do and seriously did not just make up right now.
Aaron: So, John Eggen of Des Moines, what are you doing?
John Eggen of Des Moines: I'm lookin fer rare Hot Wheels cars fer my collection. Toys ‘R’ Us said they'd have them.
Aaron: Any luck?
John Eggen of Des Moines: Nope...I've been searching fer a few hours now, can't find nothin.
Aaron: Oh...now that is a shame. That is a damn shame.
John Eggen of Des Moines: Yes it sure is. These toy stores just ain't what they used to be.
Aaron: I agree totally, John Eggen of Des Moines! Frankly, they suck!
John Eggen of Des Moines: Say...you busy tonight?
Aaron: Nice eyelash curler. Is that one of those rare Hot Wheels or are you just gay?
But my opinion changed yesterday for some time. When I discovered the Toys ‘R’ Us in Times Square it was as though a pure light began to shine on my brain. When I walked inside it was as if I had been whisked into the past, except now with better toys, more seizure inducing lighting effects, and all the 12 year olds had bigger boobs and tighter fitting clothing. You put those three things together and I sit bolt upright and start to sway rhythmically in accordance with their dark rhythms. I ran through the aisles in wonder, prancing around the giant animatronics dinosaur and playfully examining (read: sensuously stroking) Jimmy Neutron’s hair, until I saw it… the cave devoted to the WWF. Seconds prior I had jumped up on top of a lego display of the Empire State Building and launched myself off it, pants already unbuttoned and flapping behind me, towards the life-sized Barbie display when the wrestling spawning pool caught my eye. I dropped out of the air in midflight with my trousers falling around my ankles. I could feel Hell’s heat escaping through the door and I could hear the devil laughing at me, as usual. I turned away in anguish, the tears pooling up in my eyes. I pulled my pants up, zipped the fly, and walked away, broken and yes, beaten as well.
After having my dreams shattered twice, I don’t think I’m ready to commit myself to toy stores anymore. That is not to say that there is no hope, however; the Toy Chest promises good, wholesome toys with a good, wholesome, family environment. Unfortunately, that means that they probably don’t have any of the good toys that light up and make shooting noises.
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Saturday, October 25, 2003 |
I like writing and everything, I like it a lot. I like writing for you. But you are lucky indeed that I sit now before this screen, depositing words of varying length, having summoned the strength to stop laying in bed thinking about what I could be doing if I was a telepathic superhero that could control time. That’s not all I think about, though, I think about all sorts of things these days since I’m taking an inordinate about of Dayquil. Did you know there’s amphetamines in there? I had no idea amphetamines were so good. Sure, they can kill you, but so can living, right? I don’t see what those D.A.R.E. pussies are so scared of.
One of the things I was thinking about was how much of a wreck I am right now. And I honestly don’t believe it has that much to do with all the speed I’m hopped up on. Okay, maybe a little bit. Or a lotta bit. But I was somewhat of a wreck before. You see, I’ve got this thing, I think it’s called the flu. Whatever the hell it is, it sucks. I'm no more excited about having the flu than I would be to fish a quarter out of a urinal. A silver dollar, however, is a different story. The only plus to my current sickness is that I have an excuse to suck down Dayquil like delicious Cherry Cokes without people thinking I’m some kind of teenager.
People have told me, “maybe you should go see a doctor.” Yes, that would be the easy way out wouldn’t it? As a general rule, I avoid practitioners of medicine, automobile repair, law, and law enforcement. It’s not that I carry with me a complete fear of all things outside my comfort zone, convinced the world is somehow inherently corrupt. I believe that the real world is simply an environment I am poorly equipped to succeed in. It would be like putting me in close proximity to famished lions. Then again, I don’t know if anybody would be properly equipped to succeed in that sort of environment, but it would be just like me to walk into their cage after just rolling around in a pile of raw meat. Now, the probability of me walking into a famished lions’ cage or rolling around in a pile of raw meat is quite small, let alone the probability of me doing both consecutively; however, I was just trying to make a point... which I have since forgotten.
Another thing that I’ve been thinking of is sort of on the same note. I realized today, that I’ve blown my nose so many times and thrown away so many tissues that my trash can now looks like my roommate’s. Speaking of which, my roommate said the other day that he wouldn't want to date a nymphomaniac. This absolutely baffles me. There is never a time when I don't want to have sex. I either want to have sex, or wouldn't mind having sex.
Another thing I thought of is how weird it is that I like emo. Now don’t start snickering behind my back, or if you’ve already started please refrain from continuing to do so. I don’t solely like emo. I also listen to the gentle sounds of the rainforest. It helps me get to sleep. But anyway, despite my like of emo music, I will never truly be an emo kid because they stand for everything in this world that I abhor. Cuddling, for instance. I don't like cuddling. I like hardcore, unlubricated intercourse with the TV on and the bag of Doritos not far from my reach. Also, I think that wearing scarves when it's 90 degrees is pretty stupid.
While I’m on the topic of music, I’d just like to point out my disgust with the RIAA’s tinkering of my illegal music files. You can’t search for any songs done by a band on a major label without coming up with dozens of results that sound less like music and more like me wanting to die when I hear them. The labels have done a commendable job of making searching for mp3s almost unbearable to me by flooding the market with evil twins, that look like real songs but are actually five minutes of beeps, bloops, and what sounds like the drummer of a speed metal band pounding on a bunch of aluminum trash cans full of angry spider monkeys, which is fine when I'm looking for techno. But get this, I’m never looking for techno.
I was also thinking about doing a small parody of Kill Bill just like I brutalized Freaky Friday but came upon a few problems in writing it. I just couldn’t think of anything I could possibly do that would be ridiculous enough. What could I do? Have every time someone’s limb gets cut off, blood come spewing out like a geyser, 10 feet into the air for 3 straight minutes? Or maybe have 88 people beheaded and cleaved in half all by one woman? Perhaps I could have someone’s eye pulled out? I don’t know guys…I guess I’ll come back to you when I figure out how to think more gratuitously.
Finally I decided that instead of talking about entirely nothing, I would write about something slightly less related to nothing: my prior life of crime. I’m going to fill you in on the nitty, and maybe even the gritty, depending on my attention span. Amphetamines have the tendency to make it very difficult to sit still, and that’s in full-grown, mature adults, so you can only imagine the violent seizures I must be having over here. Let me put it this way, my teeth are vibrating.
The month of October is one of those rare occurrences where you only start enjoying it once it's almost over. Wait...those occurrences aren't rare at all. The same goes for family reunions, bad movies, church, sex, high school, jail, updating this website, and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. October is nothing special until the last couple weeks, when the pumpkins arrive. Don’t get the impression that I’m into carving intricate designs into pumpkins, or that I’m even into carving terribly unintricate designs into pumpkins. What I am into though, is stealing pumpkins with intricate designs carved into them.
For the past three years before I came to college my friends and I would commit numerous misdemeanors each night for several weeks. We would get donned all in black, crack our knuckles, laugh like little girls, and get crammed into a car with not enough room. We would tear off into the suburbs and just go down each road, pillaging and sacking all the way like Vikings. The only difference is that instead of taking gold and women, we took pumpkins and Indian corn. And gourds. Snatching a fancy gourd is a mark of total, unquestionable victory. Somebody could have blown both your kneecaps off with a harpoon gun in the same night, but as long as you had a beautiful, ornamental gourd clutched tightly in your fist, then I’d say you had a pretty damn good night. Seriously, you can find a pair of legs anywhere, but a good gourd is practically a rare commodity.
Now this might sound like a complete red-neck, small town activity, but we’re not total idiots about it. We’re very mathematical. Red-necks would throw twenty people in the back of a rusty pick up truck and stop in the middle of a street. At this point, everybody would pile out, and run around wildly, screaming, taking whatever they can find, pumpkin or not, smashing beer bottles over their heads, humping in the dirt, and playing with each other’s bums until the authorities arrive and throw them all in the clink. Unlike the lesser evolved members of our species, we’re quiet and sneaky about it. But honestly, that’s mostly because we’re so very scared. It’s like how people see horror movies for entertainment; we just make the fear that much more legitimate.
In fact, the most entertaining parts of the whole debacle are when the fear is entirely legitimate. I mean, past the point of being afraid of getting arrested or threatened by angry homeowners. I have never come so close to dying as I did while pumpkining. People take their headlights for granted. You see, we used to drive around with the headlights off so that people wouldn’t see us coming for their hard earned pumpkins. Going fifty miles an hour in complete darkness is a lot of fun until you suddenly realize that the road in front of you has been replaced with a hearty forest and a “Dead End” sign. The word “dead” filled my eyes as my friend’s ’93 Eagle Talon was sliding sideways, tires squealing, in a last ditch, desperate attempt to prevent our untimely deaths. The car came to a halt, gently rocking, only inches from the curb. Our screams turned to laughter, because the adrenaline forced us to believe that almost dying was hilarious.
The funniest part of that particular adventure was that my friend turned back the way we came, headlights still off, and accelerated to 55 miles an hour or so just to realize that the road ended again, with our only options being “left” or “right”. Again, the powerslide maneuver was well utilized, this time putting us inches from an oncoming SUV. And in case any of us were wondering, almost dying proved to be hilarious the second time around as well.
Now, there are many more tales of terror I can tell you about pumpkining, like the time my friend didn’t see the cul-de-sac in front of us and drove into it going 45 and then back down the other side, still going 45, leaving my oil pan somewhere in between. Or maybe the time my car’s breaks stopped working on the steepest hill in the town, only deciding to start working after we had blown through two stop signs and a red light. Or the time we were running through an open field to sneak over to someone’s house when we accidentally ran into the goat that lived in the field. That night we sure got a good lesson in "goat’s don’t like to be woken in the middle of the night and when they are they go crazy". But anyway, that attention span of mine that I mentioned before has long run out. I’ll leave you with my recommendation to go pumpkining. It seems to me a fine way to invest your Friday evening, stealing from people and then stealing from them again. I’m sorry if you think I’ve cut the story a little short, but how I was able to fit this update into my dense schedule of globetrotting erotic adventure is beyond even me. I'll talk more later, about something. Of this you may be certain.
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Tuesday, October 21, 2003 |
NEW YORK -- New York City’s parents and children can rest a little easier tonight knowing that a convicted sex offender and pedophile has met his well deserved end.
On Saturday, October 18th, at about 7:00 PM two college students confronted the waste of life at the McDonald’s fast food restaurant near the corner of 96th Street and 3rd Avenue and viciously attacked him without warning until he had bled so much out of his body that he was nothing but a dried up piece of skin when the police arrived on the scene.
The two men were taken to the police station and given donuts and asked if they were “all right” after witnessing such a horrific scene. They were also cautioned that the next time they beat up a gay child molester that they should only kick him, lest they get his AIDS infected blood in a paper cut on their fist.
Who knows what kind of unspeakable horrors these children would have witnessed had these two young men not brutally beaten their captor to death in front of their very eyes. The two little boys, ages five and seven, were taken by the creepy son-of-a-bitch to the McDonald’s to eat dinner. He was attempting a common practice of kidnappers everywhere, usually referred to as, “plumpening them up”. The boys were asked how they felt about the entire debacle and they replied with, “We got these happy meal toys and we don’t even have to have sex with him anymore? This was the best day ever!”
The disgusting faggot who probably anally masturbated to child pornography had apparently abducted the two children when they were trying to pry open an ATM machine near 90th Street and Central Park West. He told them that he was the guy who hijacked their father’s car earlier this year and that he was going to drive the car back to him now. They told him that they did not want him to bring the car back to their father because the younger of the two had thrown up in there when he was a baby and the car had smelled “really gross and nasty” ever since. The fucking sicko panicked, thinking he wouldn’t get his fix of little boy butt, and quickly replied that he would buy them happy meals if they performed oral sex on him. The two boys said, “okay,” and got into his car, which turned out to not be the same one that was stolen from their father. Sure, he was a revolting pedophile, but at least he wasn’t a criminal.
The two young men were in the McDonald’s eating at the same time as the putrid puking motherfucker and his two small captives. They overheard him saying, “Call your dad” and when the children asked him why their father had not called him he said, “Remember, your dad doesn’t have my number.” At that point it was obvious that by simply allowing this man to continue living they would be committing a crime against God and nature, so they decided to take action. Lacking a baseball bat or tub of acid, they had to resort to more barbaric methods which was not such a bad thing because that meant it took longer for the fucking fuck to die, while he writhed in agony as a continuous swarm of fists connected with his face and stomach.
The children watched the gore fly and one remarked, “That’s just like Grand Theft Auto III!” With that, the other wiped his captor’s blood off his face and said, “Let’s take that guy’s car and run over some cops with it.” They both left the restaurant at that time, and as they left one said, “Okay, but we can’t stay out too late because I need to be well rested before I shoot up the school tomorrow.” It is at about this time that paramedics say that the pedophilic asshat had died, but the two young men continued to bludgeon him until one of the customers said that he couldn’t enjoy his meal with all the racket. One of the men took the half eaten Big Mac out of the child molester’s bloody hand and ate it while the police asked his friend what had happened.
New York City grows, morally, by the valiant acts of men like these. This kind of “constructive” violence will perhaps become a cure to the “destructive” violence we see all too often here in New York. Instead of senseless murders, perhaps there will be more senseful murders.
A witness of the gruesome scene who was asked about his opinion on the heroism displayed today said, “Now these guys take their violence seriously. It’s not like, ‘I’m gonna kill this guy ‘cuz he slept with my woman.’ It’s like, ‘this guy’s a fucking pedophile and he must die.’” He continued, “I think that if more people took their violence seriously this world would be a better place. World peace? Fuck world peace, man, we gotta kill more people, that’s our problem! We just gotta kill more people, but use our heads. When you kill somebody, you’ve gotta use your head.”
Another onlooker was questioned and mentioned, “About damn time somebody started weeding out the competition for me, hah hah.” He paused for a moment as if he was thinking, and then said, “Shit…I’m just glad it wasn’t me! I had my eye on those kids too…” He then put a bag of candy and X-Men action figures away in his coat pocket. He drove away in a car that smelled of vomit.
It was later discovered by the police that the two young men did not even know or suspect that the man was a pedophile, but that they had killed him because he tried to cut them in line. The sergeant on the scene patted them on the back, winked, and took a bite from the Big Mac. “Damn good sandwich,” he commented.
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Friday, October 17, 2003 |
Every once and a while, when you don’t think work can become any more painful, it hands you something deliciously perverted. Sometimes life hands you lemons, and then you just have to make flesh eating robots!
Aaron: This person left a disk here, and we checked out what was on it- The History of Swinging. It's a multi-page paper... in purple type.
Elliot: Swinging as in, from a tree? Or dancing? Or like a swinger?
Aaron: Like a swinger. Like spouse swapping. Not the fun playground activity; not the jump, jive and wail.
And on an almost entirely unrelated note, I’m going to share with all of you something that I hold very dear to my heart. No, not my anal virginity… I don’t think we’re quite that friendly yet. But we’re getting close, so if you’re patient you might be getting well acquainted with my brown-eyed girl before you know it. As I was saying, I’m going to share with you something very special to me. And it’s not because I think that we’ve gotten to a point in this writer-reader relationship where I feel obligated to share my darkest secrets with absolute strangers/possible child molesters, it’s just that I simply love talking about myself!
I honestly believe that I could be a very good celebrity. I think this is something that I could do for a living! You know, be famous, live in the public’s eye, sip crystal in a hot tub full of bisexual lingerie models, get married, then divorced, then married again, then divorced again, then get engaged but break it off, have several illegitimate children, get married to the mother of my children, and then get divorced just after everybody thought it was finally going to last.
Being a celebrity really wouldn’t be so hard. I already have all the qualifications, or at least many of them. And I think it’s unfair to assume that I wouldn’t be able to learn any other necessary skills. I’m sure there must be some sort of celebrity training camp where they put you through a rigorous training program that consists of trying on various pairs of sunglasses and wearing pants that cost more than most luxury sports sedans simply because they’re already ripped. The fact that people pay absurd amounts of money for broken clothing is a marvel to me. Pretty soon the fashion industry will be telling us that wearing hats made out of dried elephant dung are in style and I can guarantee you that the lines will be reaching all the way out of your local Abercrombie and all the way around the corner, merging with the lines that are reaching out of the Express and Nordstrom and the whole place would smell like Roseanne's bathroom.
Granted, there is some amount of work required in order to be a celebrity. I mean, I’d have to develop a substance abuse problem right after I become really successful, but I don’t think that would be too difficult. And you might recall me saying that the key to happiness is having a job you enjoy and I honestly do believe that getting drunk every night and doing lines of coke off of the Dallas Cowgirls’ buttcracks is an occupation I could devote my life to without complaint. Of course, I would have to be careful with my alcoholism. You have to maintain a fine line where people see that you have a terrible addiction but still feel sorry for you. Nobody feels sorry for the guy who passes out on the toilet at the Motel 6 every night with a bottle of home brewed moonshine in his fist but the girl that gets her stomach pumped every weekend because she routinely drinks 50 Cosmopolitans in one sitting is portrayed as pop culture’s ailing newborn. Now, a guy can’t really do the whole Cosmopolitan angle because then people will just think he’s another gay musician, not to mention incredibly stupid. Sure, the drunkard on the toilet with the moonshine might be a filthy swine but at least his one drink cost him the same as each one of your 50 Cosmos. But it could be worse, I mean, you could be drinking Smirnoff.
No self-respecting man will ever willingly drink Smirnoff. In dire straights it can be excused, but to pay money for Smirnoff when you have an entire bar in front of you is reason enough to throw you into a rehab clinic. Real men don’t drink Cosmopolitans or Smirnoff Ice. If you want proof, just look at a time when the men were men, not the wannabe men of our day with their moussed hair and their good dental hygiene. I’m talking about a time when having a hairy back wasn’t a bad thing and only the children peed with their pants down. What am I saying? Pants weren’t even in existence yet! We’re going back to the Ice Age, the days of cavemen. Cavemen were real men; they didn’t fuck around. You’d never see a caveman drinking a Smirnoff. Some of that might have to do with the fact that alcohol, let alone basic motor skills, hadn’t been invented yet. Cavemen drank blood, and sometimes urine, but only on holidays and at weddings.
If I’m not willing to turn my liver into a dried up prune, there are numerous alternative methods I can use to tarnish my image, which are all suitable, and sometimes more entertaining to the general public. For example, make out with a fellow celebrity who is twice my age at a popular awards show. Perhaps I could bite someone's ear off and then devolve into a ravenous animal and consistently fight people on the street for no reason. Or rape white, under aged girls and pee on them. I’m sure I could think of a few more, but I’m a little fixated on raping and peeing on under aged girls right now.
There are times in your life when you’ll have a sudden, sobering epiphany. For instance, I just realized what a terrible, disgusting example of a human being I am. That requires some rephrasing. I always knew I was a terrible, disgusting example of a human being but it wasn’t until just now that I thought about how that’s not a good thing. Who knew?
Seriously, all I talk about is rape, masturbation, murder, absolutely repulsive homosexuality (as if there’s any other kind), bodily functions, and any number of other crude, licentious topics. Just look at the counters to the left if you want proof. Before this post, there are thirty posts that mention killing of some kind, thirty-two if you count the two posts that mention specifically killing with swords. Because that’s an obvious and necessary distinction. It’s a rare and dying art form, and honestly, those two posts are probably one of the few things on this website I’m not ashamed of. I’m keeping the dream alive. But to get back on task, let’s continue the run down. Twenty-five posts feature the word “fuck” in one of its many incarnations, but then again, so do most grade school bus rides these days. Homosexuality is mentioned a whopping twenty three times and I’m not even completely gay. I can only imagine what this place would look like if I was an official, card carrying fudge packer. Oh, I know what it would be like- Queer Eye for the Straight Guy with a twist…Queer Eye for the Queer Guy or otherwise known as, every time I walk into the bathroom. Okay, let’s not lose track of the record. Twenty posts talk about masturbation, and worse yet, fifteen whole posts discuss genital disease and disfigurement. In case anybody else hasn’t asked yet, what the hell is wrong with me? I think it might have something to do with cookies. ...Mmmmm...cookies. Oh, but worst of all…get ready for this…there are THIRTEEN posts devoted to Star Wars. World, I am sorry for unleashing this unto you.
See, there’s another qualification I already have for being famous- I’m a total scumbag. In fact, were I to describe myself right now for any length of time, I would quickly plow through all my euphemisms for trash. I’m on the fast track to becoming a celebrity and let me tell you, it feels fucking fantastic. Like the moment a Smirnoff Ice hits your lips…or the feeling right before you start peeing on an under aged girl. So good. So fresh.
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Sunday, October 12, 2003 |
Women never cease to amaze me. Now, that might have to do with the fact that the swaying of their breasts in a stiff autumn breeze has the same dire effects of a hypnotist's oscillating watch or that I like the way their hair smells. Also, I believe that they emit an inaudible tone that subverts my will, but for the moment I'd like to believe it has more to do with the fact that they continuously test the limits of human ability, in particular the male gender's patience. They have this devotion because every now and then, according to some secret calendar filled with alien holidays, they are rewarded for their diligence.
I'd just like to bring to your attention several hilarious stories about the finer sex's misadventures in recent days. That's right- misadventures. For those of you who can't seem to make any contact with women because of dandruff, weeping body acne, leprosy, or some sort of personality disorder, and have since become convinced that they don't even exist let me assure you, they are everywhere, and though sometimes you may need to track them like game through a dense wooded region, they almost invariably will provide you with a reason to make fun of them. First is a story of great heroism, or at least that's how it's being perceived. But I know better. On the night of Tuesday, October 7th a woman was rescued after being in her submerged car for 13 hours. She was trapped in her upside down car, which was unfortunately floating in a Florida canal. She was able to breath from an air pocket in the car and was finally saved when some truckers noticed the tires sticking out of the water and decided that they couldn't wait until the next truck stop to manhandle a woman and were going to rape this one instead. How did she end up in the canal in the first place, you might ask? Read the goddamned article, you jerkass, I reply. But if you can't be bothered, she drifted off the road and lost control of her car. Oh there's the big surprise of the week, she can't drive. Hell, she was probably trying to back into a parking space in her 20-door, 40-seater, V20, 2.5 miles per gallon Sport Utility Monstrosity, that she simply had to own even though she lives alone and doesn't carpool. She heard they were so manuverable, and even so, who could resist? It's just so cute! Besides, she needed something that could get her home fast with both unadulterated speed and the ability to destroy anything in its path so that she could spend a few hours sipping apple daiquiris and gazing longingly at the pool boy before her manicure appointment.
Doctors attributed her survival to the fact that there was an air pocket in the car, but I'd say it was more likely that she survived due to the fact that women have the incredible ability to make a tremendous mistake and then wait for a long enough time until all the blame is directed away from them and placed on someone else, usually a man. In this case, it was the truckers who didn't show up until 8 o clock the next morning. Heartless bastards, they should have been more sensitive to the fact that she was drowning in a river all night and thus gained mind reading capabilities in order to know that she was in trouble and then hurried to get there faster. The female gender's treachery leaps straight over garden-variety malice and might even be called a vendetta.
Here's another gem provided by the wonderful women of the world. A fake nurse dodged jail. Valerie Cook had pretended to be a nurse for 15 years but didn't get any jail time because none of her patients complained. And because she had sex with everybody on the jury. Judge Charles Tilling said she had avoided jail because of the "exceptional circumstances" of the case...not to mention the fact that she has really nice titties compared to most middle-aged criminals.
This is just heartbreaking. How did the world ever turn into such a cold place? On Thursday, a woman's claim against a cinema for injuries received after not noticing her seat had automatically retracted was rejected by the court. Diane Burns left her seat and When she returned she did not notice that the seat had retracted automatically, she sat down, missed the chair and hit a metal bar. The woman, who suffered a momentary pain in her left butt cheek, was not a regular cinema goer and sued the cinema operator, saying there should have been signs warning that the seats were retractable. I'm all for having signs erected that warn that women can be absolutely retarded so that this sort of nonsense doesn't ever make it to a court room again. The High Court rejected her claim saying that even if there was a sign there is nothing to suggest that she would have even read it, because she's a gold digging bitch and probably would have lied about it anyway, and also that she, like most women, doesn't even know how to read. Justice Michael Kirby said it was "easy to feel sympathy for the respondent," not because her stupidity knows no bounds, but because he was hoping to score with her after the hearing in the parking lot and wanted to look like a nice guy.
Now this story has my mind still reeling. On Thursday, a woman who claimed to be radioactive crashed her car through a tarmac gate in an attempt to get to Air Force One, coming only 800 feet away before somebody finally stopped staring at her chest long enough to realize that she shouldn't be doing that sort of thing.
"What's that?" One security guard asks as he watches a very unordinary ordinary family sedan go rocketing through several jersey barriers.
"Oh, it's just a radioactive woman, rushing at you so fast she could penetrate you right through your blue jeans," another security guard casually remarks. To think, penetrated right through the jeans! That's the kind of thing you only dream of!
The first security guard, puzzled, looks at his coworker with an inquisitive expression, "We're allowed to wear blue jeans to work?"
The second takes a bite of a donut, sips his coffee, and adjusts his blue jeans. "Well, when you're about to get obliterated by an oncoming radioactive midsize automobile going 80 miles an hour, does it really matter if you're breaking the dress code?"
"Damn it. I really wanted to wear blue jeans," the first laments.
"Ya snooze, ya lose."
Frank Conery, a witness, said about the woman, "She looked dazed, she didn't look right." Well, Frank, that's the power of radiation for you. Does things to the mind...like makes you want to kill the president with your Ford Escort. Sure, it's only a Ford Escort, but it is important to note that it was a four door and had a little more cushion for the pushin' than your average Ford Escort. However, it still wasn't too powerful of a weapon, and that's why she had to go and make herself all biochemically hazardous as well. If you open the door of the Escort while you're driving you actually turn left. And you can't do both 65 and listen to the radio at the same time. Police noted that she was listening to Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" when she was apprehended and I'm willing to bet that she would have gotten away if there wasn't such a damn good song on the radio.
But back to the cold, hard facts. "We couldn't believe they didn't shoot her," Frank said. I know, Frank, it's unfortunate, but we live in a country where you can't shoot women for getting out of line anymore. Them's the breaks. A secret service spokesman said about the incident, "At no time was the president in any danger." Yeah, except for the part where the crazy nuclear woman was charging at him with her car and none of the security was doing anything about it, right? It is important to note that that spokesman was actually a spokeswoman and was ably contributing to the plight of women's liberation by proving just how stupid women can be. I will think of the terrible scar this leaves on humanity's history every time a red sore leaks white pus.
In closing, I would just like to apologize to any women I may have offended throughout the course of this post through my sweeping, angry generalizations about your gender's intelligence and evil, man-hating ulterior motives. If it means anything to you, being this incredibly sexist is causing me immense discomfort. Or maybe that's the feeling of me knowing that now I will not have sex for a very long time.
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Monday, October 06, 2003 |
Another one of those "rattle on about random topics with no reasonable order and sound like a moron" articles, so look sharp!
If you read this site regularly, chances are you have at least an iota of something resembling intelligence. Or you like penis jokes. But I imagine if that's the case then most of the time you’re scratching your head trying to interpret these strange symbols on the screen (hint: they’re words) until you hit another “penis” whereupon you’ll just start laughing simply because of the word “penis”, not only because you associate the word “penis” with comedy but mostly because that’s one of the only words you know.
By the way, this was part of an experiment to find out whether or not penis is funnier when it’s surrounded by quotation marks. “Penis”. Oh ho ho! It gets me every time! Hmmm… I think we all know the outcome of this experiment, now don’t we? Screw the scientific method, I knew it all along. “Penis” … “vagina”. Oh Christ, I slay myself sometimes.
I swear, sometimes my train of thought completely derails and devolves into nothing but a smoldering wreck of twisted steel, smoke plumes rising from the metal torment and literal massacre of machinery, filling East Buttfuck, Pennsylvania’s sky with a thick haze. Back on the ground, a team of engineers circle the destruction, the debris, the detritus, the dregs, the dross, the ruins, the rubble, the remains, the refuse, and the crap. They shake their heads incessantly, biting their cigars, minds reeling and boggling when finally one of them takes the cigar from his mouth and grunts, “Well shit.” The guy next to him pokes a piece of the burnt catastrophe with a cane, and everyone has a good, hearty laugh when they notice the blind, crippled elderly man writhing on the ground like a turtle on its back. Every time he starts to get up they flip him back over and it never gets old.
See, there’s a prime example of the old train of thought derailing. I tell you, when I find that little bastard who keeps throws the pennies on the track I’m going to send him to the hospital on the end of my shoe.
Anyway, as I was saying, if you read this often you’re probably a fairly intelligent person, since that’s the only way you could possibly understand and follow what I write here on a regular basis. Either that or you’re completely insane. Or maybe you’ll be completely insane because you read this. Haha, suckers. It’s only a matter of time now before my plans come to fruition. But anyway, it’s a damn good thing that you’re such a smarty pants because every single one of my articles is complete and total bullshit generated by a jaded teenager with an overactive imagination and obsession with bizarre sexual deviations. Example: the Hot Carl. Just the name alone is funny, there’s no reason not to be obsessed with it. Okay, I’ll admit it. I don’t even know exactly what a Hot Carl is, but I’m willing to bet that it has to do with fecal matter. That’s what it always comes down to and I have come to love it.
Okay, the reason I mentioned the collective IQ of my readers is because the things I am about to tell you will take a person of great mental merit to grasp. Yes, I’m about to speak of the oddities I’ve encountered in New York City. There was a time that I thought the Japanese were the only ones capable of so loosely defining what is socially acceptable but that was before I saw a man throw up through his own three foot long hair and then sleep in it. The throw up, specifically, that is, but he did also sleep in his hair. You know, since it was attached to his head.
The first day I was here I was walking up the road and saw a woman sitting on a curb with two black eyes. I had never seen such perfectly symmetrical bruising before in my life. It heartened me to see that even in the rock hard Bronx they still had an appreciation for fine art. Hey, hey, what do you tell a woman with two black eyes? Nothing, you’ve already told her twice!
Another oddity I’ve come across is that the homeless are by and large far too vocal. Aren't the untouchables supposed to be not seen and not heard? Back where I come from, we had one homeless person, but he never bothered anybody since he was usually too busy at his other jobs, being the mayor and local minister as well. But here they ask you for all kinds of things, like money, clothing, prayers. For example, “Take off all your clothes, give me all your money, and say your fucking prayers.”
I know I shouldn’t be afraid of bums, people are always telling me how low the “chances” of getting your face rocked and left in a rat infested hole somewhere are. But to me, talk of the "chances" is of no help at all. I mean, think about the guy who has that rare form of butt cancer. He's not thinking, "Well, it's just so rare!" Ask him if he thinks he has a lucky ass.
However, there are many homeless people I’ve encountered who just want to talk, and even worse, tell jokes. I’ve found out that everybody who wants to become a stand up comedian but isn’t fat or a minority ends up living in the subway terminal. Here’s some quick advice. When a bum with the devil in his eye tells you a joke, don’t say, “MY GOD THAT’S THE WORST JOKE I’VE EVER HEARD NO WONDER YOU DON’T HAVE A JOB YOU FREAKIN’ LOSER WITH NO PERSONAL DIGNITY! HERE’S A NICKEL, START WORKING ON A ‘MAYBE I CAN EAT TODAY’ FUND!” Believe it or not, they don’t get any funnier after they put the gun to your head. Instead, try saying, “HAHAHAHHA! MY GOD THAT’S THE FUNNIEST JOKE IN THE WORLD I JUST FUCKING PISSED MY PANTS FROM LAUGHING SO HARD!” Not only will he feel good about himself and probably won’t kill you anymore, he’ll also be under the impression that you have something in common (trousers that reek of urine) and might not ask you for money either!
It probably comes as no surprise, but the bums provide many of the oddities here in the Big Apple. The bums who didn’t try to make it as comedians don’t generally retreat to subterranean lairs, but instead remain above ground and share their talents with the general public. Yes, these are the failure theater majors that couldn’t even cut it as Mickey frickin’ Mouse at Disneyland. One day I happened across a homeless fellow, dressed in the usual garb, just in case that matters for your perception of the following action. He was dancing on one leg, eyes closed, eating his way through a box of White Castle and peeing in intricate patterns into an empty baby carriage at 8 in the morning. 8 in the goddamned morning! If that’s his opening act, what the hell is his grand finale?!
New York also houses some of the most intense strip club competition I’ve ever seen. Hell, it could be a professional sporting event here. You can walk down one street and see 6 different strip clubs all next to each other, in one long, smutty, glisteningly majestic row. Those idiots don’t realize they’re putting themselves out of business. You can go to one strip club, and trick the sluts by putting fake money in their panties. They’re too stupid and drugged up to tell! By the time they figure it out you’ll already be at the next strip club playing your tricks on the next unsuspecting harlot. You might want to write that last point down, because with it you’ll never get your kneecaps cracked by one of the strip club’s goons again, let alone pay for a lap dance. Seriously, those henchmen are a little too overzealous. You permanently mange one lousy prostitute and then they come to bat your head clean off and start running for first. First what, God only knows. I guess it all depends on where they kill you.
That above-mentioned commercial gluttony is also apparent in gas stations, chop shops, and Starbucks.
Lastly, and this is the strangest things to me, New York was one of the original 13 colonies, Manhattan is one of the oldest cities in the United States, Americans have been here for hundreds of years, and yet, everybody speaks Spanish! One time I was at the "Cheap Booz" up the road a little bit, and some Puerto Rican guy with a turbine on his head was running the place, and he was talking in some crazy ass code, so I was like "You're in America, speak American!" and the little prick kept going on and on about Lord knows what. So I left the store without paying. I thought I was pretty hot shit that day, but then I remembered I forgot to take anything. It was a symbolic victory.
Sometimes I just can’t wait to get back to my dorm room. The relative calm refreshes me absolutely, like a seltzer enema. It scours my entire apparatus and yes, I wholeheartedly support this kind of activity as long as you do it in your own bed.
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Thursday, October 02, 2003 |
Everybody works out these days. Or at the very least, everybody thinks that they work out. Actually, let me clarify that a little further, only for the sole reason that I receive some sort of sadistic pleasure from taking a simple topic, throwing it against a parking block, elbow dropping it, and then pummeling its innocent, pretty little face into a pile of mashed potatoes. You wouldn’t believe the determination and pure stamina required to turn human flesh into potatoes, but it is possible with a sufficient beating. But you’ll be there for a few days. If the cops show up, knock them out, and turn them into some sort of potato product as well. Like, one of them could be potato salad, and maybe the other could be French fries or potato pancakes if you’re doing this at a morning hour. There are hundreds of potato recipes, if you manage to clobber enough people you could have a potato buffet to share all of your unique potato inspired dishes with the neighbors, and then use them to make seconds.
Where was I? Oh yes, beating the dead horse with a hammer. Some people send their horses to the glue factory when they die, but I much prefer to bludgeon them senselessly for hours on end for no other reason other than the fact that I like the sound soft flesh makes when I strike it with a hammer, or mallet, either will suffice. Holy shit fuck, I just can’t seem to stay on task. All this talk of horses is making me hungry… and I sort of want to do a craft project with a lot of glue.. and maybe get high… and horny. Horses. Hmm.
Okay, seriously though. Everybody says that they work out so that everybody thinks that everybody works out. So I guess that working out is a lot like being gay. Really hot right now.
My roommate likes to work out. But he’ll only do it in front of people. For example, he’ll come in the room and say, “Gee, I should work out. And you know what, I think I will.” So I say, “Don’t let me stop you… fucking queer.” I mean, can you blame me for thinking he’s gay? He works out! Remember, so hot right now? These trendy motherfuckers will do anything as long as its chic, including having depraved sex with another man’s butthole while doing butterfly curls and leg lifts. Hm. I should copyright that position before somebody on MTV’s Undressed steals it.
Anyway, back to my roommate. After he makes his statement of intent (that he wants to work out, not that he desires man love), he’ll just sort of sit down, play some obnoxious music (example: Love Shack) at an unhealthy volume, and then start playing video games for a while until 3 to 5 people show up and start hanging around in the room. It doesn’t matter if they’re male or female (again, the question of his sexual orientation rears its curious head). If they’re female, he wants to show off how many push ups he can do in two minutes, and if they’re male… well… I guess he still wants to show off how many push ups he can do in two minutes. I mean, he went to an all boys’ Catholic high school, and I’ve heard stories about those places. Oh, I’ve heard stories. Like, this one in a town near me supposedly has this ice cream machine that supposedly has a vacuum that sucks the ice cream up and drops it into the chute. Supposedly, anyway. I’m telling you, all boys’ Catholic high schools, they’re crazy. Supposedly though, I suppose. I’ve never actually been to one.
Italics.
So once those 3 to 5 people of inconsequential gender show up, my roommate will stand up, take off his shirt, stretch in order to blatantly show off his perfectly formed chest, washboard abs, and moist, puffy, luscious lips… mmm… horses… Uh! I mean! Shit! Yeah! Then he’ll drop to the floor and do an absurd amount of push ups, usually straining his body to the point of near complete exhaustion. I guess that’s sexy these days, where all the veins in your head are pulsating at an incredible rate and your teeth are gritting together so hard that a pile of sand is forming below your mouth on the floor. Then he’ll get up, and without fail tell everybody “Turn around and don’t look for about a minute and everything will be all right,” whereupon he’ll get naked and put on a towel. How do I know this? Well, for about a minute I did look and you know what, everything was all right anyway! So there! By the way, you might want to have that lumpy skin condition you’ve got going on down there checked out by some sort of professional. Oh, and you also might want to stop me from rubbing my genital herpes all over your towel since that’s probably how you got said lumpy skin condition. Yes, that’s right. You’ve been had.
I’ll admit, I work out from time to time. I have trouble getting really pumped up since I don’t particularly like working out in front of people. I’m not sure exactly why, although early speculation tells me that it has something to do with the fact that bench pressing a pool noodle is not terribly flattering. I can do no handed push ups though, although again, not terribly flattering. Especially with those aforementioned herpes oozing all over the place. Damned Catholic school boys, who knows where they’ve been?! Well… I guess I know they’ve been with somebody with herpes anyway. Or at least the one that I molested in the back of a school bus had been.
As I was saying before I took about the 7th pit stop on the tangent expressway (damned women and their “I have to go to the bathroom…again” shit. Fucking Christ, bitch, maybe if you didn’t drink so flipping much you wouldn’t have to pee at every other rest stop. Although I must admit, you have helped me greatly in finding information for my doctoral dissertation on the subtle differences between every Roy Rogers, and no, you may not have a large soda, little Miss Never-Been-Housetrained), I can never get the motivation to work out seriously. That is, until I came up with my magical, motivating 90 pound weakling work out CD extravaganza (patent pending)!
Aaron Hatch’s 90 Pound Weakling Work Out CD Extravaganza has all the songs that will get you PUMPED UP!. In no time you’ll be working out like a real man and tearing all of your stomach muscles making it impossible to remain in a sitting position for any amount of time for weeks straight! You’ll have the strength of 20 men! It includes all the songs that you like and need! Songs like: “I Touch Myself”, by the Divinyls (I do too!), “No Sleep Till Brooklyn”, by the Beastie Boys (Oh yeah, they’re the best and so naughty!), “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”, by Cyndi Lauper (Daddy, you’re still number one!), “Eye of the Tiger”, by Survivor (This song has nothing to do with working out!), “Sandstorm”, by Darude (Yeah! Techno!), “Layla”, by Eric Clapton (Got me on my knees! Who’s hungry? Who’s hungry?), and a special, limited time only encore presentation of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”, still by Cyndi Lauper! (Still awesome!) Aaron Hatch’s 90 Pound Weakling Work Out CD Extravaganza is THE BOMB. Everybody has it but you! You need it now! With this CD you’ll have the strength of 10 men! You’ll be able to chop a bus in half! Call now to order and receive a free full frontal lobotomy! But wait! We’ll also throw in a free beach ball, with many bright colors in order to entertain you in your soon to be vegetable state! But wait! Horses! All of this for just eighteen payments of $39.99 plus tax! This is a 719.82 dollar value! Aaron Hatch’s 90 Pound Weakling Work Out CD Extravaganza plus full frontal lobotomy, colorful beach ball, and horses is not available in any store! Call now! You can have the strength of 5 men! Sorry, no checks or CODs, available only where applicable, offer expires whenever we go bankrupt, strength of many men and ability to bisect buses dependant on a steady, full body work out and cybernetic implants or genetic enhancements, must be 18 and fucking retarded to order.
Let me tell you, this work out CD is perfect for me! “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” is perfectly matched to my routine so the work out lasts no longer than the song. What is this miracle 3:51 minute work out? Well, I’ll give you a hint. It involves lots of fist pumping (be sure to alternate which hand at regular intervals) towards the lower thorax region. So yeah, the workout is 3:51 minutes long. How’s that for stamina, girls? *nudge nudge*
Oh, and in case you were wondering about the thorax remark, I’m the last of a once glorious race of giant cricket men and my work out is mostly a means for me to collect sperm in case I ever come across a colony of giant cricket women so that I can ensure the survival of my kind. Also, I have a pathetic addiction to masturbation and am no longer the master of my own domain. And, it’s always good to have a little something laying around in case you’re ever hankering for a midnight snack!
Every song serves a specific purpose in my routine. For example, “Eye of the Tiger” is more of my relaxation song for after I’ve finished working out. I added it only after the first time I listened to the CD and go so amped to look like a side show act, complete with judo chop action when you pull my leg, that I worked out until I was teetering at the brink of death. I finally stopped when I noticed I couldn’t feel my arms anymore and I was only imagining that I was actually breathing.
I lay exhausted on the floor and a crumpled up towel draped over a nearby chair caught my eye. I pulled it towards me and wiped the sweat from my forehead with it. As I pulled it down over my face I noticed a foul, familiar scent in the towel. Realizing what the smell was, I threw the towel across the room in a mixture of disgust and complete terror only to realize that the towel was in fact my own and I had used it to work out many times before.
Mmm…horses.
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timey |
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forecasting |
Aaron's
List
Film: Garden State
Game: Spitting mad amounts of it, yo
Music: Pixies- Velouria
Text: REAL Ultimate Power The Official Ninja Book- Robert Hamburger
Activity: Taking it easy on the daily
Anticipating: Birthday 2004!
Brandon's
List
Film: Waking Ned Devine
Game: Super Mario World
Music: Fooled By April- Nice To See You
Text: Apocalypse Wow!
Activity: Getting things squared away
Anticipating: Year 3
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name of my band |
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believes that the older you get the more jaded
you become, which causes you to need to be
increasingly ridiculous just to entertain
yourself. That said, he's invented over 200
masturbation techniques and can play a mean
spoon.
is a complete mystery; guised in shadow at all
times. But that's only because he doesn't shave
very often. Word has it he's into graphic
design, but nobody knows for sure because I
don't think he actually even writes for this
site. |
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evidence |
| Number
of Posts Mentioning...
Killing: 74
"fuck": 58
Homosexuality: 55
Masturbation: 47
Genital Disease/Disfigurement: 31
Star Wars: 18
Horsies: 10
Burning Magma/Lava: 6
Spiders: 6
Blogger Bashing: 5
Menstruation: 4
PBS: 3
Killing With Swords: 3
"frooglepoopillion": 2
Total Posts: 100
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...
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toed sloth, Jedi Outcast, booger, Butterfly,
wookie, something, nothing, joe, monkey
pictures, cartoon dogs, train lyrics, don, cry,
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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, free weights, jelq, aids research,
sleep disorders, narcolepsy, sleep paralysis,
raiders of the lost ark, monkey bone, dragon
pictures, the last unicorn, mythical creatures
Number of
Readers Online: online
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