Tuesday, November 25, 2003 |
There are people out there in the world in which we live who hate ugly, fat people. And if you were ever to ask me if I fell under that persuasion my answer would be a resounding "kill 'em all!" I'm not worried about sounding violent and scaring people away. Who am I going to turn off with a comment like that? Fat people? Oh now there's a great catastrophe. Good, get the hell away from me, Flubber. Isn't there a McDonalds out there that you should be patronizing? Or at the very least, surely you have left a half eaten bag of Doritos lying around the house, probably in your bed since you haven't left it in 8 years. Oh wait a minute...you don't really leave anything half eaten now do you? Everything gets pretty much obliterated by your gaping maw.
In retrospect, that sounds awfully hurtful and I would feel pretty bad about it if that wasn't the intention I had in mind.
Why am I so consumed with hatred for the obese today, only days away from Thanksgiving, a holiday which essentially celebrates overeating? It has to do with a coworker of mine. I don't even like using the term "coworker" when referring to her since that implies that I spend some time in the same room as a fat person, something that I've tried to maintain is just a malicious rumor started by some thoughtless, vicious human being whose sole desire is to soil my reputation. Of course, this isn't too credible, since naturally it's hard to believe that anybody could possibly dislike me. I mean, Christ, I'm not fat, for crying out loud!
But as I was saying, this girl, if that's what you can even call her, who works with me is possibly the most pathetic example of humanity our species has ever offered. Where is Darwin when you need him? What happened to the strong survive? This sad sack can't even motivate herself to get out of a chair! Our job basically entails no responsibility or work whatsoever save getting up and fetching printed documents for people in the computer lab. This involves getting up out of your chair and walking two, possibly three, steps and delivering it to them. She sits right next to the printer and on the rare occassions when she feels limber enough to lift her arm to grab the paper will then proceed to wheel herself over to the desk to give the paper to the person. It's a grand show I must say, but as I previously noted, this is a very rare occassion. Usually she'll just sit there, congealing, until I realize that all hope is lost and get up from the opposite side of the room to get the paper. Now here's where things really turn enjoyable. I will be less than an arm's length away from the printer when she'll finally move her chubby, articifial cheese dust covered fingers to grasp the paper making my much more epic trek entirely forfeit. Yes, now that you ask, I do want to kill her.
Fat people are pathetic, this we have established, but I can at least feel sympathy for them when they assume an air of helplessness. This creature is far more deliberate. We all know she can get the paper and do her little wheelchair routine, we've seen it before, but sometimes she just decides not too. She's too busy levelling up for the 400th time in Ragnarok Online, which she plays a solid 12 hours ever day, I might add. She's always here playing that game. I'm looking at the work schedule right now, and she's only scheduled for 10 hours all week. This might make my previous statement of her playing Ragnarok here for 12 hours a day seem a little suspect, but I assure you, I tell no lie. She stays in this soul draining, cancer inducing hell hole for hours on top of her scheduled time on her own volition. Without getting paid! Apparently, defeating the dungeon master is payment enough.
The only times she is not here is when she's in the lobby raiding the vending machine. "No more Cheetos?! WHO ATE THE CHEETOS?!" Whoa there, Miss The Hutt, don't you remember the Cheeto eating fiasco you had yesterday? There's no one to blame but yourself! You're a danger to the survival of the Cheeto kind! Extinction is imminent. You're eating them at a rate faster than they can possibly reproduce! Oh...right, reproduction is something very foreign to you. Let's hope it stays that way. But who can blame the poor Cheetos for losing the will to procreate when they know what their ultimate destination will be? The sticky hands, and finally the bulging belly of what must be the last of a race of ravenous rock trolls.
Fat people of the world, learn from this beast's mistakes. As a wise philosopher once said, "you never get a second chance to make a first impression." Now that I think about it, I believe this is actually a quotation from a deodorant commercial and not a phrase muttered by a wise philosopher, unless you consider a man with sweaty armpits to be particularly wise. But the lesson is still there. Use deodorant, you fat fucks! Or at the very least take a shower! Get into those creases you haven't visited since a time before all those Ring Dings and Devil Dogs took up occupancy there. Being fat is bad enough, don't add being smelly on top of that! I mean, at least if you smell nice I can pretend to respect you... no, wait. That was a lie.
I'm not saying these terribly mean and offensive things just because I wish everybody was thin! I mean, that's besides the point, but I'm seriously concerned for your health! Do you know how bad the human race looks if we all keep dying because we can't control our own eating habits? Pathetic, that's how we look! Just like the fatties! I'm looking out for our best interests, here. What happens when the Vulcans try to make first contact and they see a planet inhabited by a race of beings that can't even get out of bed because they weigh too much for their limbs to support? We'd be better off with a race full of depressed, lonely, socially incompetent Star Trek fans who are convinced that the Vulcans really do exist and will indeed make first contant. Shit, at least then I'd finally be able to convince somebody to have sex with me, and I probably wouldn't even have to hit them with a rusty spade or kidnap their family.
As a result, I've taken it upon myself to develop something that will actually make you lose weight. And I'm not talking about one of those metabolism enhancers that works extremely well, that is, until it kills you. I'm going to develop a method that will be safe and effective. I don't know what it is yet, and I'm probably not actually going to do it, but it's good to have a dream. Are you going to begrudge me of that? You let Martin Luther King have his, and he was black! It's only fair! Right. So fat people of the world, look forward to "Aaron Hatch's Miracle Fat Buster" in the future. I can honestly say that I'm not doing this for the extra income and money it will generate for me, but instead am doing it for the extra income and money it will generate for me. Sorry, I meant to say that I'm really doing it out of the goodness of my extra income and money it will generate for me. God damn it, I can't even successfully lie about my motives anymore. There go my future prospects for a management position.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Thursday, November 20, 2003 |
Local Area Gay Declares Today as “Best Day Ever”
MANCHESTER, Connecticut- Today, Miles Daniels, a local gay man, was heard exclaiming “Oh my God! Today was the best day ever!” before he pranced away from the scene of the statement. Others in the vicinity were left bewildered, wondering if today was indeed the best day ever.
“I was like, well, where do I go from here? Should I just kill myself?” Stated a weird, but non-gay community member.
His fellow straight American responded, “Dude, you said you were going to kill yourself yesterday. That was days before you even knew that today was the best day ever.”
The first heterosexual retorted, “Dude! This is on the news! If my mom finds out she might take away my Cannibal Corpse CDs again!” His concern was noted and the question was dropped.
Apparently, Daniels, the gay man, made a sojourn to a nearby Target department store today and bought some shower caddies on sale. It is speculated that this might be the cause of his homosexual outburst of joy.
A highly respected team of scientists, psychologists, and other various kinds of “ists” has been given the task of interpreting the homosexual’s portent of doom.
“As regular, unoffensive and natural human beings, we cannot possibly understand the relation between buying shower caddies and the occurrence of the single best day in history,” Dr. Scot Thomoston, a heterosexual psychologist, said.
One of his team, also straight in orientation but sympathetic to the gay cause, noted, “Perhaps the fact that the shower caddies were on sale is the cause.”
Shocked, Dr. Thomoston, a renowned woman-lover, replied, “Now that’s just a little too convenient, don’t you think? I bought a stick of beef jerky on sale at the gas station today but I think that today sort of sucked.”
The question remains whether or not Daniels’ sexual orientation has to do with his decision that today is the single best our species has or ever will know. It is also possible that the majority of society, being heterosexual, is suffering from what is now being called “Beef Jerky Syndrome,” where the afflicted straight person cannot see days which are clearly the best ever.
When asked about his statement, Daniels, the homosexual in question, said, “Why is today the best? Because Target is the best store ever! And now I have somewhere to put all my stuff in the shower! Jeez!”
Normal, heterosexual people cannot relate to this as they do not spend nearly the amount of time in the shower that the gays do. Homosexuals, given their filthy lifestyle, must spend a great deal of time washing off their sins each day in order to escape the crushing power of God’s disapproval.
The “stuff” that the admittedly gay Daniels mentioned is described as, “You know, stuff! Um…regular shampoo, stress relief shampoo, shampoo for dandruff and dryness, shampoo for moisture and other assorted wetness, shampoo for crusty buildup, and shampoo for sticky residue. And there are conditioners for each of those shampoos as well, of course. And my guilty pleasure… apple cinnamon shampoo, but I only use that when I’ve had a really tough day.” A tough day for homosexuals is far different than what a normal, God-fearing member of society would consider a tough day. One can only assume that it means there were no pink scarves left at Nordstrom or something equally queer.
Daniels, a complete fairy, continued, saying, “Let’s see what else… soap, shower salts, my Venus razor, Vagisil, a spoon, a cucumber or summer squash depending what’s in season, and some disinfectant for this oblong object I want to put up my ass that I found in the park but need to clean first.” Naturally, the oblong object must be cleaned since it will be going into gay Daniels’ dirty, gaping, semen-infested gay anal cavity.
Fundamentalist Christian groups across the nation are inflamed, like Daniel’s penis loving inflamed anus, about this. “How is some man-loving fag going to tell us that the Apocalypse is here? It says in the Bible, the Good Book of the Lord, ‘You do not know the hour or the day, so be ready for the throngs of faggots will be ready to blaspheme and sodomize.’ I’m not going to have some gay queer telling me that the world is over. Best day ever, my buttocks!” Exclaimed a militant Christian zealot today in response to Daniels’ remark.
The angry straight man, who opted to remain anonymous for reasons involving his own safety from those God-darned queers, continued, “Why don’t you come here and say that? I suppose you’d like to suck me off. You’d like to go down on me like a frickin’ circus seal. Well I’d just like to see you do that. Really, I would.”
If today is the last good day we will have, in fact the best ever, we might as well start promoting lawlessness and anarchy because it sure would be stupid to waste an opportunity like this, especially with those cute shoes you’ve been eyeing waiting so temptingly on the shelf. However, at press time, it was still unknown whether or not today really was the best day ever but scientists think that it was probably just a gay lie. A homosexual scientist who is not under this opinion was not interviewed because his opinion does not matter and was too busy douching or doing some other faggy activity at the time.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sunday, November 16, 2003 |
It's hard to believe, but I really haven't been slacking on the posting front these past few weeks...months...forget it. Sure, it may seem like it, but then again, nothing meets the eye. Transformers taught us that...I think. I'm really not up to par on my 80's nostalgia lately. Thank the "mildly" overweight and undersexed individuals at Gamemaster for that. Keep it up guys, you're doing a great job wasting your existence on pretending to be figments of your fucking imagination. I'm sure God has a sense of humor and will allow you to continue your battle against the demonic hordes in the afterlife. Guess what guys - now you're playing Diablo: The Real Game.
But, I digress. I'm not quite sure where I am going with this post, and doubt I'll ever find the proper footing. I suppose I'll just run with it. In this case, it can and will be anything that I desire. I'm Prince Charming and this is my Magic Kingdom you're living in, so the sooner you come to terms with that the better off you'll be.
The past three months have been something of a personal sabbatical for me; day after day I've spent many sleepless nights trying to figure out exactly what the fuck is wrong with this "fine" institution that I attend. I've chalked it up to the fact that I am an art major and that I'm doomed to a concrete prison where chicks that take notes in Elvish are admired more than the busty, loose slut's that roam the other side of campus. The side that I'm not privileged enough to walk on, where almost everybody dresses like they shop at the mall and not at the Salvation Army's thrift shop. I should be grateful that we have a Salvation Army thrift shop, I suppose, or else I'd be amidst 258 naked individuals with bongo drums instead of backpacks. You think I tease.
Two weeks ago I found myself standing in the middle of an African drum performance put in an effort to support the Painters with Issues Foundation. It's not actually called that, but I think people with an agenda that are different than me need to be labeled. The whole thing really struck me as odd because, first, the guys on the drums were far from African - that is, of course, unless people from Africa are 220lbs white guys that wear sandals and have never heard the words "scissors" or "razor" before. Second, I thought all of the painter's with issues were busy reprobating high school kids over at Abercrombie and Fitch for being "normal." I use quotes there because no one is normal, but kids in khakis are light-years ahead of anyone that thinks 12 tattoos and 8 piercings is chic. Let's face it, if you fall into the latter category, you're never going to get laid - at least, not by anything that scientists would classify as a member of the human species. Hang yourself with piano wire, drink a gallon of turpentine, whatever - get out of my face, you scare me.
I shouldn't make the entire art department out to be a bunch of raving lunatics that were never told that the 60's died with Andy Warhol's movie career - that's a job for English majors. Actually, there are quite a few people that society would deem normal. I stress would only because pagan sacrifices over at RISD on the weekends: not a conversation starter and, more importantly, not going to get you many friends. Neither is Star Wars, but I guess God never intended me to have friends.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Friday, November 14, 2003 |
Before we begin this round of eclectic updating shenanigans, I would just like to point out how it would not be appropriate for you to think right now, “Gee, this Aaron fellow is a real loser. He’s updating on a Friday night.” You see, I’m actually having the time of my life right now, and updating at the same time. I think that proves exactly how unlike a loser I am, because it takes a pretty cool guy to be able to stretch his arms from the Earth’s orbit all the way back to his little hole in the wall in the Bronx, New York.
Oh wait a second, did I say the Earth’s orbit? That’s right, I did! And that’s because right now I’m in a very exclusive, spacetacular discotheque in the International Space Station. Several astronauts and I are having a great time with several cosmonauts and their dog, Comrade Whiskers, having a deep discussion on which name is cooler- “astronaut” or “cosmonaut”. I can barely get in on the discussion because I’m laughing so hard since everybody keeps saying “naut.” So I took a bit of a breather and pressed the “update from space” button, which sends a little robot down back to the planet to do an update. Let me know if the update sucks, you really can’t rely on robots after all, they’re still in the experimental stages. You know how that goes, those teenage years are home to all kinds of experimentation: drugs, deviant sex. Yes, even inter-home appliance sex! I once heard a gruesome tale of a lonely maintenance droid who got himself all jammed into a Dirt Devil. Sickening as it is, let it be a lesson to all you pervert-minded robots who should be updating instead of looking through my porn folder. Anyway, if the update isn’t funny I’ll be sure to throw a wrench in the robot’s gasket. But in the meantime, I think I’m going to go attempt to throw a wrench in cosmonaut Katinka’s gasket and sip on some delicious moonjuice. Maybe I’ll even try one of those crazy blue hot dogs. And no, “blue hot dog” is not a euphemism for “Martian penis”, although I sure would like to get my hands on one of those!
Just in case it hasn’t been nominated yet, I’m officially handing in my vote for “discotheque” as the most oddly spelled word in human history. It’s been a long road, species, but at least we can say that without us the world would have never seen bizarre spellings such as “discotheque”. I guess that’s sort of like saying, “Yay, humanity rules! Look at it this way, Mother Earth, without us, you’d still have your beautiful and lush rainforests, clean sky, drinkable water, fossil fuels, and dodo birds! But now, all you’ve got is nuclear waste, trash, dangerous UV rays, global warming, and birds with more normal names!” Ah well, maybe the word, “discotheque” isn’t worth celebrating, but I can’t help myself from writing it again and again just so that I can look at it once more. Man, can’t you just smell the gay seeping out of that word? Sheesh!
Oh yeah, I’d also like to submit my vote for Aaron Hatch as the “Class of 2007’s Most Likely to Abuse Italics and Quotation Marks.”
After writing my last post, I remembered a post I did a couple months ago, which contained some relationship advice. Somewhere in there I said that I would continue the lesson at a later date and I figured sooner would be better than later in light of my stalking situation. I feel compelled to write several hundred – what am I saying? - thousand paragraphs on advice on how to best stay the hell away from me directed towards my stalker, but naturally, that’s not fair to the rest of you Aaron stalkers out there who might be perfectly normal as stalkers go. Normal meaning homicidal and depraved, of course. I appreciate your obsession with me and would like to nurture it, not dash it to bits like that bastard Johnny Wilkin did to my Snake Eyes action figure in the second grade on that fateful April morning while waiting for the school bus.
My dick hurts. …I’ve got to remember to stop slamming it into doors.
At any rate, I think now would be a fine time to continue my love lesson, as I have an abundance of experience of reading love advice and consider myself something of an expert of copying it down word for word, inserting a sentence here and there of what you humans would call a “joke”. Oops, did I say, “you humans”? I meant, “you fellow humans”…haha. Wow, wasn’t that silly? New subprotocol: kill every person who has ever accessed this internet website. Error: Redundancy: “Internet website”. New subprotocol: Shut up. Error: No, you shut up.
Let’s talk about online relationships, since I think that’s where my stalker belongs instead of the real world where people don’t appreciate being threatened with knives of any sort, not to mention serrated ones with the words “Destination Aaron’s Back” carved into them with what must have been really long fingernails. First of all, there are some risks involved with an online relationship (besides hooking up with a penis mutant) that everyone should be aware of. What if you meet someone who hides his or her real identity from you? For example, at a previous time in my life I had a six month online relationship (read: we talked on AIM once a day to have cyber sex) with a witch lady in Tasmania. The relationship became quite intense, we adventured into all kinds of "taboos", like anal sex with a papaya and double fisting...with a papaya. Aaah yes, I can still remember the first time she said to me "ooh ya oh ya, ur pssy feesl sooooo good on my dcik." Unfortunately, the love affair fell apart when we finally decided to meet. The witch woman, who had portrayed herself the same age as myself, with huge voodoo modified breasts and one of those cool bones through her nose, flew to Connecticut to meet me. Several hours before we were to meet (we had never spoken on the phone or exchanged actual pictures of ourselves, only badly drawn MS Paint representations of ourselves that we pretended were really us as we delighted in clam shandies late into the night) she called me. Guilt drove her to phone to forewarn me that… in reality she was in her early fifties, divorced…twice, grotesquely overweight, a heavy smoker with six, possibly seven, children and actually came from the someplace in Oregon that nobody heard about or cared to. Needless to say I was distraught excited beyond belief. Unfortunately, on her way to my house she was attacked by a pack of rabid dogs lead by a slobbering mastiff with a green mohawk and an eye patch. His name was Madd Dogg, in case you wanted to know. When the cops finally came to help her they decided to shoot her instead. Somebody told them that she was black, I guess. They exchanged a few quick high fives with Madd Dogg and his gang, and then became drunk off spirits, ate a ridiculous amount of Belgian waffles, and played pinball at the local video arcade. Error: Redundancy: “Video arcade”. New subprotocol: Donkey Kong sucks, Mortal Kombat rules! Error: I can’t argue with you there. Mortal Kombat really does rule.
One of the things that can make the aforementioned example so damaging is the element of fantasy. Cyber relationships are incredibly damaging as they are, your social life, family life, dignity, all of it- destroyed. If you have never met someone in person, but start a cyber relationship with him or her, your own imagination, interpretation, and twisted psyche contribute to what you do learn about them, which will mostly be lies anyway. Very quickly your imagination will give your cyber friend a certain cyber smell, cyber measurements, and cyber push up style. Right now I’m getting the impression that you’re the type of guy that’s into those Zen Buddhist one handed clappity clap what what push ups. If crazy nazi people can do them, I think you can drop and gimme at least twenty, teat sucker. And I mean, I’m talking bare minimum here.
Part of the reason online relationships are so pathetic is that you usually will end up (foolishly) quite attached to someone thousands of miles away until eventually you need to come back to earth. Unfortunately for us, most people don't own their own personal space shuttle, therefore we'll be stuck in the cold quiet of outer space, listening to our own shaking breath, gripping our machine guns tightly...waiting, nervously for the next onslaught of blood and brain sucking alien bastards. So much for our discotheque party. They could have just asked for some Jupiter Ginger Ale, we had enough for both of their heads. I guess maybe they didn’t like the music. Who knew that aliens aren’t into the artist formerly known as Prince? Still, that’s no reason to go on a vaporizer death massacre.
What happens if your love ends up living in Brazil and you're stuck in some civilized area of the world? You know, when most people think of Brazil they think of Brazilians, which makes perfect sense since there are a bunch of Brazilians that live in Brazil. Historians are still trying to figure out how those tricky Brazilians made their way onto the not-really-an-island of Brazil. Some say they fell from the sky, others say God put them there, and still others say they were grown by the Russians in order to launch a radioactive genocide campaign against the savage Congoites, which wouldn't have been so bad. Whatever the answer, the fact remains that your only friend in the world lives in the jungle some where and you're all alone, stuck with nothing but touching yourself like you have for the past 44 years. It's good to see that some things never change. Throw that chair away when you’re done, okay, roommate?
Now, I don't actually believe that there are any real women on the internet looking for guys, only men pretending to be women and fat women which are actually so fat that they classify as just fat, and not human. But, for the sake of the post and my poor, disturbed stalker, we're going to pretend like there actually are women who practice internet romance. For a woman, getting a man should be easy online, since if there's one thing besides stupidity the internet is full of, it's men. Unfortunately for women, they're incredibly greedy and picky, and won't settle for people who don't speak English and live on a raft, teenagers who want to do nothing but play basketball and stroke a few bars on the invisible guitar to pictures of your panties, and guys who would stop at nothing to "frag the holy hell out of you" in an exciting game of Quake III, as long as you let him be the Bitterman model and agree to rockets only. Wanna see my rocket? I'll show you mine if you show me your armor shard.
Believe it or not, when you respond to an email from a guy or girl asking for hundreds of close up pictures of the space in between your balls and your rectum and he/she answers you back by saying that they're going to butcher you in a 711 bathroom stall with a rusty pick axe they found in the Ice Age, they're actually going to do that. When people say, "I'm going to kill you", you really should take their word for it. The internet is crawling in sickos and dementoids, and therefore any kind of threat should be taken with the utmost seriousity. And don't assume that they're just playing a game with you and email them back with things like "Oh, you want to wrap my entrails around your head like a turban and go out for Halloween as a terrorist with a head wound? Great! I'd love to tear off your arm with my legs in a flying scissor kick and then take it to a church where I'd mix your blood with sour wine and drink it out of a gold encrusted chalice." Christ, don’t give them any ideas. You’d hate to be the innovator behind your own brutal demise. That's simply asking for death. He will kick out your teeth, make you stab yourself using his hypnocontrol eyes, and then snatch your girl and pork her rotten in his broken up limousine that doesn't even have any wheels anymore since he ate them all for breakfast. If I had muscles on top of muscles and swastika tattoos, I'd probably do it too.
Imagine if you had a big tongue that you could use to swing from tree to tree like Tarzan. That would be so awesome. And just think, you could steal food off people's plates like a frog or a lizard. Which is it? A frog does that, right? Whatever. It would be cool to only wear loin clothes and drag bitches by their hair and punch their cunts. Now that's my kind of date.
When it comes to internet romance, the cardinal rule is to take it slow. Fuck going fast. Go for style instead. If you want to go fast, buy an airplane.
Consider yourselves lucky to be so unfortunate and deranged that you're able to sell yourself online. Sure, it's sick, but as long as everybody's sick nobody will actually think any less of you. Back in my day we didn't even have internet macking, we had French poodles, and if you wanted to send somebody an email or instant message you'd have to sew a hand written note to the dog's underside, since we didn't have staples or type writers back then either. Then you would put the poodle in a home made tennis ball launcher and send him in the direction of your fancy. Man, French poodles don't fly for shit. The only way to get them to go at all would be to shave them bald and cover them in bacon grease before stuffing them down the barrel of the cannon. And even then they would barely give. Those were different times, when all men were nine feet tall, and only the children peed with their pants down.
The main problem with this system of internet communication was that all the dogs died. All it took was one slightly misguided shot, sending the dog skewering into a redwood, and BAM, that was it, you were out of another poodle. Whenever I got involved in a heated conversation I'd go through 10, maybe 20 dogs an hour. I was the most popular guy at the kennel back then. Hm. What I was trying to get at is that the funny thing about internet romance is...shit, what was the funny thing about internet romance?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monday, November 10, 2003 |
As a general rule, I try to keep this “journal” as unlike a journal as possible. I never want this to become the kind of place where I describe in detail what I ate at the cafeteria today, followed by a verbatim conversation with a pretty girl I met in said cafeteria, followed by heartbreak, agony, teen angst, and irritating acronyms. Granted, I do share details about my life when it’s either appropriate or hilarious, sometimes I even allow these stories to be released when they are both appropriate and hilarious, and there are those few exceptions where the stories are only appropriate because they are hilarious, but hardly ever do we see an example of a story that is hilarious only because it is appropriate. Generally, things that are appropriate are as far from hilarious as contracting HIV is from being a good, wholesome family activity. Wow. If my train of thought is in fact a car, and not a train, I just got involved in a high-speed 75-car pile up on the Stream of Consciousness Autobahn involving numerous casualties and traumas to the head.
Like I was saying, I try not to talk about my life solely for the purpose of talking about it because I don’t actually want this website to be a journal. However, there are those occasions that I need to express to you because I have a feeling you are all sadistic enough to enjoy my suffering. You see, I have a contrived mental picture of my audience that factors greatly into the type of content I produce here. Generally when I sit down to write something I’ll picture the lot of you in my head, which usually consists of a ravenous cave beast perched atop a mountain of bones, gnawing on a human femur, while grasping me with its other massive paw and picking at my eye sockets with its venom-laced claws. See, I don’t write about people getting killed and submit my hatred for everything because I actually like to write about those things, I just figure violent, carnivorous monsters are into that sort of shit.
But at any rate, the story I am about to relate to you is gruesome and terrifying. Before I begin, I would like to point out how modest of a person I am, though. The only thing I am not modest about, however, is how modest I am. I find it a source of great pride. So keep that in mind once I start to sound more egotistical than people who wear Versaci, Gucci, and Poonani, and all those other ritzy brands of clothing. Now, I’m no stranger to girls being compulsively attracted to me. (See what I said about the modesty?) In fact, I have often likened myself to a piece of blood soaked raw meat and every female on the planet to a pack of starving rottweilers. Never before, in all my days of being a heartthrob to the masses, have I experienced stalking to such an extreme degree as I have in recent weeks. Sure, it’s the result of several factors, such as the fact that this particular stalker is more disgusting than any before, that she is breathlessly persistent, and finally, she has sideburns. You might say that the sideburns are part of the disgusting factor, but I would point out that any girl can be ugly, but sideburns elevate them to an entirely new level. She was ugly before the sideburns. With the addition of the flowing facial hair, she has climbed to heights that can only be described properly as “gonorrhea of the eyes”.
As if that description wasn’t vivid enough for you, let me go into further detail so that perhaps by the end of this paragraph you will share my absolute disdain for this creature. Of course, she possesses the sideburns as previously mentioned. She’s also sporting sort of a half bleached, Medusa-style hairpiece that I constantly fear is going to lash out and try to maim or eat me. She’s about 3 feet tall, which makes her perfectly sized to sneak up on me and drag me into her subterranean lair, the Pit of Despair and Lost Young Men With Bright Futures.
She contains energy levels equal to that of the epicenter of a thousand atomic blasts, which usually expresses itself in her incessant bouncing even at hours as early as 9:30. Sometimes this energy also takes the shape of a horrid retard impression which lasts entirely too long. She also has a tendency to stare at me for uncomfortably long periods of time, and continues to stare even after I catch her doing it and make eye contact. Normal people feel shame after being caught staring and look away as soon as eye contact is achieved. I have adapted a technique that is comprised of me first diverting my eyes away and then looking all around frantically and vivaciously as if I’m tracking a bee that is loose in the room. However, she maintains her piercing gaze, using a Superman-like technique commonly referred to as “heat vision.” I like to call it, “I wish this crazy bitch would stop burrowing through the back of my brain,” but that’s only used in small social circles and probably won’t go into vogue with the rest of pop culture for at least another few months.
One of the most detestable qualities of this girl is her brutal honesty. Like a child, she says things without considering their impact on others, which oftentimes results in making me want to hit her about the head with a cinder block until she dies. For instance, she once said that my goatee made my chin look like a shaved vagina, where somebody missed a spot. I told her that I never wanted to hear the word “vagina” out of her mouth ever again and then ran back to my room and shaved my goatee off until my chin was red and raw. Never have I met a woman who could make me abhor the word vagina until now. A word of advice to those on death row, bring gloves, because Hell is officially frozen over. Finally, the quality about this girl that I hate the most is the fact that she is obsessed with me. I probably wouldn’t mind her nearly as much if she didn’t make her existence so painfully clear to me. I have the uncanny ability to let people’s irritating qualities go unnoticed if I’m not aware that they’re even alive. If you want to learn this useful technique, I’ll be holding an open seminar this Sunday.
Recently, I’ve been unable to tolerate this girl anymore and have taken extreme measures to avoid her. We share an 8:30 class on the opposite end of campus and she makes a point to follow me and talk to me for the entire 15-minute walk to our dorm, which I am saddened to report, we also share. Fortunately our beds we do not share, but don’t think even for a minute that she wouldn’t change that if she could. Fortunately for me, I have replaced my mattress with a garbage bag full of razor blades and shark teeth, and while uncomfortable not to mention possibly deadly for me, assures that she’ll have nothing to do with it.
I dread the end of my 8:30 class now. Of course I want it to be over so I can leave the accursed room and get on with my exciting routine of playing video games and sleeping, but at the same time I have no desire whatsoever to share the walk back with this soul draining Neanderthal woman. I’ve tried holding a book over my face as if I am reading in order to hide my identity but I suppose her heat vision can go right through the pages, because she always seems to find me despite that tactic. Simply outrunning her is not possible, apparently she can either teleport or fly, because she always catches me. The only way I can possibly dodge her is by taking a completely ridiculous route back to the dorm, which involves me actually trekking around the entire North American continent, making a huge loop back to the room. One time she met me in Arizona, and naturally, was the only person within a hundred miles with water. I considered drinking all the water so that she would die of thirst, but then realized that she would probably just suck my blood if it came to that and I certainly didn’t want her mouth anywhere near my body. Just like you wouldn’t want your dog to lick you after you saw him eating his own shit in the back yard, I don’t want this girl to suck my blood after I saw her eating her own shit in the back yard. Now, if she brushed her teeth in between, I might be a little more sympathetic to her blood-sucking vendetta. I’m sorry, but poo eating is something I just can’t excuse. It’s a pet peeve.
There is one other way out, but it is a method that I am somewhat reluctant to take. It would involve me being so intensely hurtful towards her that she would no longer want any of my blood. But like I said, this is not an option I want to choose. You see, despite the fact that she has made me consider killing myself just so that I never have to see her again; I just can’t be mean to the girl. As I mentioned before, she has a childlike honesty about her, and naturally, everything else about her is childlike. Except for the vagina comments and the time she told me “I’m tired of sex, I’m beat red.” But she seems so innocent and naïve, otherwise. I’m afraid that even the most considerate of “fuck offs” would send her into tears. You understand, that you can’t make a girl cry without having every other girl in your dorm, hell, the entire campus, to instantly blackball you. Making a girl cry is social suicide, even if it is a girl this despicable. I’m willing to bet that even if the girl was a convicted serial baby killer, if you made her cry, every girl on campus would still think you were an asshole. “She kills babies for fun,” I told them. “That’s no excuse to be so mean!” They replied. “But she kills babies for fun. She kills them.” They do not listen to my sensible argument. “You’re such an asshole!” They exclaim. Who killed the babies? I didn’t kill the babies. Why am I an asshole?
As you can see, I have quite a conundrum on my hands. I think maybe if I just kill her, all will be well. Sure, for a couple days people might look at me like I’m some sort of sicko, but once I wash the blood off my shirt people will probably let me hang out with them again. I mean, they’re okay with the baby killer, after all.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Wednesday, November 05, 2003 |
I feel like I ought to apologize for not posting in a week and depriving you of your laugh material. However, I also feel that I just don’t give a damn and was way too busy doing absolutely nothing whatsoever the past week to break that routine in order to write your only escape from your dull, ho-hum, humdrum, put the cheese in your bum, daily life. People say that I’m bitter, but I like to think of myself more as characteristically marked by resentment and cynicism. But anyway, things will be returning back to normal around here. Normal, of course, meaning sentient home appliances, or whatever.
Just when you think you’ve heard it all, someone goes and has himself a penis-stealing spree. Check out this article that appeared on CNN.com last month. Of course, the article is deleted now because as detailed in the laws of Internet news, history restarts itself at the beginning of every month. Fortunately, I saved the article when I had the chance. One, because you just can’t let news like this disappear into the land that time forgot and two, I just like stories about penises.
“Suspected genital thief beaten to death in Gambia
Thursday, October 9, 2003 Posted: 7:26 PM EDT (2326 GMT)
BANJUL, Gambia (Reuters) -- A 28-year-old man accused of stealing a man's penis through sorcery was beaten to death in the West African country of Gambia on Thursday, police said. A police spokesman told Reuters that Baba Jallow was lynched by about 10 people in the town of Serekunda, some 15 km (nine miles) from the capital Banjul.
Reports of penis snatching are not uncommon in West Africa, with purported victims claiming that alleged sorcerers simply touched them to make their genitals shrink or disappear in order to extort cash in the promise of a cure. The police spokesman said many men in Serekunda were now afraid to shake hands, and he urged people not to believe reports of "vanishing" genitals. Belief in sorcery is widespread in West Africa.
Seven alleged penis snatchers were beaten to death by angry mobs in Ghana in 1997.”
And now I will begin attempting to tear this news story to shreds with the power of my hilariosity. There are so very many things wrong with this little nugget I cannot even begin to hope to make sense of it. I feel like I'm losing my mind whenever I try to come to some conclusion about this story. This is the first thing I have ever read where Manga speechlessness: "...", is the only valid response. I will nonetheless attempt to ridicule it despite my lack of understanding because one, it really is too easy and two, I just like stories about penises.
First of all, this whole thing is simply side-splitting. There are several factors that help to add to the uproarious factor of the story. First, “alleged sorcerers simply touched them to make their genitals shrink or disappear in order to extort cash in the promise of a cure.” Also, “seven alleged penis snatchers were beaten to death by angry mobs in Ghana in 1997.” This isn't just one psychopath that likes to grab people by their willies; everybody's doing it! In fact, this sort of thing has become so common that “many men in Serekunda were now afraid to shake hands.” Imagine that. You shake somebody’s hand and BLAM your penis is gone. I’ve had a similar experience, actually. One time I was introducing myself to my new blender and my penis disappeared when I shook his hand. Of course, it had probably more than a little bit to do with the fact that I have developed a habit of shaking hands with my penis and the fact that the blender didn’t have any hands, so I shook his deadly, fruit carving, rotating blades instead. Ah well, shit does happen!
And now for a little fictional interlude… Stop groaning, you bastard, it will include talk of wieners so there’s nothing to worry about.
A man walks into office in Banjul, Gambia, looking for a job. In the window there was a sign that read “Help Wanted” and the man assumed that meant that help was indeed, wanted. He walks up to the desk and gets the attention of the man sitting in the chair, sipping some coffee. The man behind the desk is a fat, red-faced man, the type of person who always has a jovial temperament and really enjoys his donuts.
Gary Gambia: Hi, I’m here to apply for a job.
Chet Foley: Hey there, I’m Chet Foley, damn glad to meet you! *Mr. Foley gets out of his chair and prepares to shake Gary’s hand.*
Gary Gambia: *reaching out to shake Mr. Foley’s hand*
Chet Foley: *raises hand up just before Gary grasps it* Hah-HAAAH. Gotcha! Hahah. Sit down, buddy, sheesh, this isn’t a baseball game, for crying out loud! HAAAAAAAAH. Get it, get it? Because all they do is stand around in baseball? HAAAAAAAAH, Jesus. Whew.
Gary Gambia: *sits down* …So, I would like to apply for a job.
Chet Foley: You want a job…HERE? *A cockroach scuttles across the floor and one of the ceiling tiles falls to the ground, followed by several human bones*
Gary Gambia: …Yep. Yeah, uh, that’s what I said.
Chet Foley: You got the job, man! YOU GOT THE JOB, MAN! *punching the desk and Gary repeatedly*
Gary Gambia: Ow. Ouch. Really?
Chet Foley: HAHAH! DAMN STRAIGHT! Here, shake my hand, you little African bastard! *offers hand to Gary, gives a look of great anticipation*
Gary Gambia: *eyeing Mr. Foley suspiciously, hesitantly begins to stretch his hand outward*
Chet Foley: *grabs Gary’s hand and shakes it vigorously* HA-HAAAHHH! Congratulations! Now I can fire you in two weeks like all the rest of you little black bastards! Hah-HAAH! Run the country dry, I say! Work ‘em til they wish they were still running around in loin cloths, eating each others brains in the jungle, right, Gary baby? Eat my brain out, Abraham-fuckin’-Lincoln!
Gary Gambia: *grimacing* My…my arm, sir…
Chet Foley: *dropping Gary’s hand suddenly* Hah hah hooooo! I’m sorry there, my boy. Shit, you shoulda said something sooner! I practically shook the black right out of you there! You know where you get forearm strength like this, Gary baby? Huh? Well do you, you little bastard?
Gary Gambia: Where…where do you get forearm strength like that, sir?
Chet Foley: FROM BEATIN’ SLAVES, THAT’S WHERE! HAHHH! …I’m just kidding with you, baby. I have a masturbation problem. Hah. Hahah. …Something that you won’t have to worry about anymore!
Gary Gambia: *shocked* What do you mean?!
Chet Foley: You know what I mean! *Pulling a big, black penis out of his pocket and waving it in Gary’s face*
Gary Gambia: That…that’s mine! You’re one of those damn penis snatchers they’ve been talking about!
Chet Foley: Genius! This little bastard is a genius! Call Albert-fuckin’-Einstein and Sherlock Holmes, this guy’s a certified, card carrying detective! He’s one of those…whaddaya call ‘em? Christian scientists? *Pulling a bag of hot dog buns out of his desk drawer* What was that thing Albert Einstein made up? E equals MC shut up?
Gary Gambia: You’ll be killed! You’ll be lynched right out in the town square!
Chet Foley: Wait, wait…lynch the only white guy in the country? Hah! Isn’t it funny how things switch like that! Lynched? Hah-HAAAH! You mean next to the shit shack and the other shit shack? Hah-hah-hah hah hah! *placing the penis in one of the hot dog buns and reaching for a bottle of ketchup on his desk*
Gary Gambia: That’s right! They’ll have you killed! They’ll beat you to death, the police too! They’ll do anything for money!
Chet Foley: *spreading ketchup on the penis* You know what, Gary? You want to know what? Eat… a… DICK! *takes a big bite*
Gary Gambia: AH! BALLS! *collapsing in pain*
Chet Foley: I have the cure of course… not that it’ll do any good now that I bit this bastard right in half… but you’ll have to work for it! That’s right! You’ll be making Nike footwear for the rest of your life! SWOoSH! HAHAH!
Gary Gambia: …Nike? I thought all the Nike sweatshops were located in Asia. This is Africa.
Chet Foley: Ahah… ahahah… hah… uh… no kidding? Well shit! I guess I have a plane to catch! Smell ya later! *Pops the rest of the penis in his mouth* Pleasure doing business with ya, no-dick! Hah. Circus sideshow! Oooh! Everyone come see the Amazing Dickless Wonder! Hah! If it’s any consolation, you taste great! Hah-Haaahhh!
Imagine living like that! Okay, maybe it’s in less of a business environment, but just because the perpetrators don’t wear ties, doesn’t mean it’s not still scary! Imagine living in a place where penis snatching is an industry all its own, having grown so much it had to be considered its own separate industry from general private part snatching. Imagine a place where laws don’t prohibit another man from shaking your hand, so the citizens have to take matters into their own hands and beat all the voodoo dark lords to death! Let me tell you, voodoo dark lords don't fuck around, they have very special projects that need working on and all of them involve hurting people. Not even for any reason. It is as though there is always a big Hurting People competition coming up, and they would like to make the hurting seem effortless. This place exists! It’s called Gambia! No wonder Gambia hasn’t developed nuclear missiles yet; they’re too busy working on their secret penis-stealing bomb.
As strange as this story is, I’ve actually thought about doing something like this before. For example, there was a time when I plotted to kill all the men with big dicks so that I would finally have a normal sized penis. Then I realized I would have to kill everyone alive, including women and babies, in order to have just a normal sized penis. And I don’t even want to know what it would take to have a big one!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
|
|
|
| very
questionable |
|
|
| olde
timey |
|
|
| trend
forecasting |
Aaron's
List
Film: Girl Skateboards- Yeah Right!
Game: The Simpsons Hit And Run
Music: The Bloodhound Gang- I Hope You Die
Text: REAL Ultimate Power The Official Ninja Book- Robert Hamburger
Activity: Not too much
Anticipating: Again, not too much
Brandon's
List
Film: Clerks.
Game: Alien vs. Predator
Music: Blink 182- Miss You
Text: Creative Design Basics
Activity: Packing and polishing off my update
Anticipating: My sideburns growing back
|
|
| the
name of my band |
|
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. |
|
| inseminating
evidence |
| Number
of Posts Mentioning...
Killing: 75
"fuck": 59
Homosexuality: 55
Masturbation: 48
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...
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, 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
|
|
| something
like tripe |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
