Wednesday, December 31, 2003 |
Well it seems as if the new year is upon us. Needless to say, as each new year approaches, I grow increasingly uneasy, wondering exactly when doomsday will befall us. I know we're going to die of some awful, most likely explosive, fate, I just don't know when. And it's that anguished anticipation that's the most painful part of it all. Those bastard alien creatures in that mother ship I've seen orbiting the earth can't just flip the "Total Destruction" switch and end it all. No, they prefer to hover over us, taunting us, occassionally flipping the "Mass Hysteria" or "Mass Laxatives" switch making sure that our dying days are equally unpleasant as say, being an alien creature with no gender. I'm told they're big on dry humping.
I suppose it's this paralyzing fear of the armageddon that causes people to come up with New Year's resolutions each year. Either that or they just want to be better people, or perhaps they heard it was the cool thing to do and didn't want anybody to think that they were a loser because then they wouldn't be allowed to play with the cool kids anymore and Timmy and Brendan might put sand in their pants next time they go to the playground. And let me tell you, having sand poured down your pants is no fun. It itches, it chafes, and if you have an unfortunate genetic makeup like my own where you hit puberty around the age of six, you'll be combing for sand for the next decade, at least. No matter which way you cut it, just about everybody comes up with a New Year's resolution of some kind, even those defiant nincompoops who say "I didn't make a New Year's resolution because either a) I never keep them or b) it's a stupid/idiotic/moronic/retarded/dumb/retarded idea." By stating that you're not making a New Year's resolution you're making a resolution not to make a resolution. Got you there, you little shit. Resolve this! ...I'm making obscene gestures right now, if that helps.
So for the benefit of all, I've decided to take it upon myself to go through a general list of common resolutions and ridicule them so thoroughly that you'll either turn into one of those New Year's resolution naysayers or will attempt to kill yourself by alcohol poisoning tonight at midnight. It's been a long time coming, jack-o, you really didn't have to wait until midnight, we would have been satisfied with 3 pm. Or hell, right now would be okay, actually, if you're not busy.
And I'll go personally kick those aliens' in their gender ambiguous crotches after this. In case you were wondering, my resolution was to be even more awesome than last year and the only way I could possibly do that would be to singlehandedly save the known world. As for all those unknown parts of the world, well, there really is no easy way to say this... I'm sorry.
Finally, let's get this party started. Oh wait, here's another resolution- nobody can ever say "let's get this party started," please. It's time to let the healing begin. But anyway, there is one resolution I hear again and again, and each time it rings a more ridiculous tune. For this fact alone, I think musical instruments should stop making resolutions, but aside from that, middle aged people should never again wake up in the morning and decide to be "younger" from that day forward. Balding fifty year olds with pony tails will always be a joke, especially if they're driving a convertible while simultaneously wearing a cardigan sweater because they can catch a chill even when it's 70 degrees out. Old people cannot be hip, no, not even a different kind of hip. Old people of the world, I'll tell you the one kind of hip you can have, an artificial one when you fall down the stairs and crack your natural one. And trust me, that will happen, so maybe you should just resolve to doing that.
Sort of along those lines, people always resolve to finally get rid of their old car and drive something cooler. This ultimately ends up with hairy men buying white Mazda Miatas. I think before you decide to get a new car you should figure out your sexual orientation. I think a cool car to get would be something huge that would allow you to drive over anything, including white Mazda Miatas.
Dating is always a recurring theme in New Year's resolutions. What is that old saying? Those who don't learn from the past are destined to repeat it? Humans of the world, learn from your species' 400,000 year history! Dating somebody "different" and "dangerous" will only get you knocked unconscious with a rusty spade and dragged back to an apartment that reeks of urine where your date will read you his many poems about ponies. Then again, I suppose it all depends on how you define "dangerous." For me, a dangerous girl would be one who could see through all the lies and deceit and has a well developed fight or flight reflex. Either way, wouldn't it be nice to say, "It's been a long road, species, but at least we don't make that silly resolution anymore"? Hm. Maybe next year.
Another thing people always say that they'll do in the new year is to see more of the world and travel to exotic locales. Come on now, think a little more realistically, please. Maybe you should start with going to a different grocery store than you have in the past five years, and move on from there. Besides, the fact of the matter is, most of the known world sucks! And as for the rest of the world, well, they're all going to be destroyed by the aliens soon anyway.
People constantly resolve to either get a new job or show their boss who's really boss. These resolutions have a default two outcomes: you don't actually do anything or you do and end up homeless, and probably gay too since you'll notice a trend starts to develop where nothing goes right anymore. What's the point of saying you're going to start the career of your dreams when for most people it is sitting on the couch, picking potato chips out of the cushions and watching reruns of Three's Company... or Facts of Life, whatever your preference. Despite any wishes you may have, Nick at Nite will never pay the bills. But hell, you're welcome to go and try it, as long as you're not my dad.
Dieting is pretty much the uber New Year's resolution. Both in the fact that so many people do it, often times repeatedly, and also that it characteristically never actually happens or works. It seems as if people have trouble realizing that eating a salad only after two cheeseburgers and a sleeve of Oreos is not going to help you lose weight. And even if you eat smaller meals, by snacking every half an hour throughout the day you're really not helping your situation. Also, working out entails more than thinking about doing some sit ups. Besides, let's face the facts, you're a porky puke by now and just walking to the gym would strain your body to the limit. It's a lost cause, my friend, so you might as well enjoy that second helping of chocolate cake.
I know I might sound like something of a buzzkill here, and don't think that wasn't the intention. By letting you down hard, I recieve sadistic pleasure through your harsh realizations of how pitiful your lives really are. Also, if everybody else thinks they suck, that automatically makes me that much cooler. That might not sound like it makes any sense, but trust me, I did the math.
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Saturday, December 27, 2003 |
But Aaron Says (4:03:02 PM): Update?
five for fooling (4:04:11 PM): Well, see, here's the thing, I- forget it. We've had this same conversation a million times during the past 7+ years. I think you can see where I'm going with this.
But Aaron Says (4:04:59 PM): You haven't even started it.
five for fooling (4:05:13 PM): It's not even a surprise anymore!
Christ almighty, it's been far too long since I've posted. I'm not going to get into a whole explanation as to why I haven't written anything since November because, well, who gives a shit? God cares I'm sure, but that's just cause he got stuck with caring about everyone on the face of the earth. Except vampires, which explains all of the pagan sacrifices going on outside the Rhode Island School of Design every Thursday night at 8. Funny how that coincides with NBC's Friends, isn't it? Anyway, I should probably get off this and onto the main topic of the post. Keeping on like this will only make me run off into a million different tangents and that's Aaron's forte, not mine. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I'm a straight to the point kind of guy, and I've got an image to uphold. Jesus, no wonder why I'm not getting laid.
So the past four months have been quite educational for yours truly, and if I don't impart my recently acquired wisdom on the lot of you I'll be doing one hell of a disservice to communities everywhere. Now, I'm not talking about the kind of knowledge one learns in class. If I spent the next few paragraphs attempting to recount all the tripe I learned about design and suicidal-gay-artists that dreamt of riding horses you'd probably do yourself in. You're not an art student (cherish that fact) and you weren't built to understand that stuff. But, if by chance you do reach the end of this and decide to slit those wrists of yours, remember two things: it's down the road, not across the street, and I am in no way responsible for your idiotic decisions. That's Aaron. Now, on with the countdown.
1. Busting your ass in school - not worth it. Honestly, find the easiest way to get A's or B's in all your classes while doing as little work as possible and you'll be golden. I changed things up at the beginning of this past semester and locked myself in my room doing work all the time. Granted, I did make Dean's List once again and started coaxing people into doing my work for me but only after all the sacrifices I made. And trust me, did I make sacrifices.
Yep. This is the "good picture" of my finger taken 4 days after I lost part of it in a freak utility knife accident while working on a project. Needless to say, I was none to pleased at the prospect of showering with one arm sticking out of the curtain for almost two months. Using one appendage to clean every orifice of your body, God, that's a kicker. I ended up passing my project in, blood stains and all, hoping that he'd find sympathy in what happened. I got a 60. Lesson: Have lots of sex and do as little work as you can!
2. Despite what Aaron says, a cell phone is incredibly useful. No, not in the conventional sense, but check this out. When I came back for Thanksgiving break, my friends and I hit the town and indulged ourselves in the classic hangout spots. As our night toiled down, the only thing that was open late was Barnes and Noble, so we went. Unfortunately, while I was off looking at this Star Wars setup they had at the back of the store, two of the most terrifying females that I went to high school with caught up with everyone else. Out of sheer politeness, my friends indulged them in conversation. When I came back to see what was going on, I was horrified - so much that I couldn't save everyone. I had to accept the fact that fate had caught up with them. That was until the store began to close, and they booted the lot of us out. This is where the cell phone comes in.
I was the last to exit, making sure these chicks didn't see me. As they started back up with the chit chat outside of the store, I panicked - I didn't want to say anything to ... them...so I went through my coat looking for something....anything to save me. Before they can turn their heads and say a word to me I rip out the cell phone, pretended to dial a friend, and proceed to have a 20 minute conversation with myself, successfully foiling them from coming in direct contact with me. Sure, it sounds odd, but the reaction garnered by this asshole of a move by my friends was great. And I didn't have to look Ms. fatty Y in the eyes. Lesson: Cell phones may be all that saves you from unwanted reunions.
3. There are two things that I guarantee will make not just life, but college life, easier for you: being ticklish and having an outstanding personality. These two things definitely make things, such as parties, that much greater. With a witty sense of humor and the ability to be vocal, social, and just generally not a shy bastard, you could become the center of things. This past semester, two guys on separate occasions suffered from either being non-vocal or just generally boring idiots during a few parties with women abound. Don't be that guy. Be yourself. That generally works, unless you suck at life, in which case you will be berated by chicks that can't understand why you think they speak Italy in Italy. It's Italian, smart ass. Grab that bottle of Bud Light in your hand and just crack it over your skull. Existence is now better off without you.
As for being ticklish, well, it doesn't work for everyone. This is what you'd call my Achiles heel. It's the one thing that'll just take me out on the spot. And when girls know this, they exploit it. Well, at least most do, except the socially retarded and boring type (hi Jen!), but on the whole, it leads to very great things that God intended to be done between two people. Like thumb wrestling. Lesson: Read more Something Like Tripe, because Aaron and I are the best role models for this 'cool' stuff.
4. Sweats are comfortable as hell, but don't wear them all the time just because you're in college. The shock of one day adjusting them and realizing why there is a reason that fat people wear them is just too much to handle amidst all the other drama going on in your life.
That's me, coming to grips with it all. I'm still having trouble coping, but with the support of my friends and khaki's from The Gap, I'm moving on with my life. PS- I'm not a giant by the way. Some people just can't take a picture. Lesson: Sweats were not designed to be worn consistently. Not even in college.
5. Festive doesn't mean decorating your hallway floor with dozens of hanging, lubricated condoms. Please......just.....just don't.
And I leave you with that. Courage.
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Sunday, December 21, 2003 |
Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick it's been a while, hasn't it? You know, working on this website can at times cause one to forget how great the finer things in life are, for example, life itself. You don't see too much of that while glued to a computer monitor. Oh, and by the way, whoever put that super glue on my monitor- that was a dirty trick and don't think even for a minute that Santa wasn't watching.
My job provides me with ample opportunity to do absolutely nothing. Now now, this is a good thing, because I take my time wasting very seriously. I believe that one should waste time whenever one gets the chance. And at my job, that happens to be all the time.
Because of the intense boredom that is usually created when someone sits in one place for four hours straight, I often find myself looking by myself for something to occupy myself with... for... myself. You know, besides the usual fare of harvesting bed sores or falling asleep and waking back up and falling asleep again but then waking right back up again. Recently, I became enthralled with the java game, Noah's Ark, on Yahoo Games. It revolves around making pairs of the same animal so that they can get on Noah's Ark before the flood arrives and drowns everything not on the boat. The game sounded appealing to me because I like the idea of a vengeful God, a God of action and might who crushes those who oppose him and can turn into a red hot rod with 22 inch rims and a loud custom exhaust. This is the type of God who would drown the entire world and entertain himself with the suffering of all his creations by making it into some sort of game. People often tell me that I am going to go to hell, but I just say to them, "Probably so, since my God is even worse than me and there's just no way he's letting me into Heaven until I run over a few more orphanages."
While the above paragraph describes the immediate appeal I had for the game, that doesn't even begin to touch why I found myself playing it for three hours straight. Well, besides the fact that there was actually and quite literally, absolutely nothing else to do other than go insane, I was captured by the game not only because of its crack-like addictiveness, but because I failed and still fail to understand so very many things about it.
For example, its open promotion of homosexuality seriously boggles my mind. I found myself continually making pairs of male lions. How did I know they were males? They all had manes, silly. A mane is like a beard, for a lion. Boys have beards, not girls. Granted, there are some girls out there that do have the misfortune of possessing beards, but I'd like to keep that kind of riff raff off of my ark, thank you very much. So instead, I kept pairing up male lions and they'd scamper away to the ark, with little hearts bubbling all around them. The part that confuses me is not so much the blatant homosexuality, but the fact that this homosexuality occurs within a Biblical setting. Noah's Ark is a story from the Bible, and the Bible condemns on numerous occassions the practice of not only homosexuality but also masturbation, a passage that I try to avoid. And now we see Noah convincing the impressionable young animals that it is okay to be gay. Wait until those lions find out about a little something called AIDS, Noah, then they're not going to think homosexuality is so hot.
The game becomes more engrossing after one realizes the huge benefits of stringing together combinations of gay animal lovers. I tried to get all one type of animal aboard ship first in order to amass a fortune of points, which are worth something if you have stock in the virtual world, which I just happen to have. I thought it would be a good backup plan for whenever the machines take over. Soon though I started running out of time and the water started to pile up, and many unfortunate animals were left behind just because I had the gall and greed to collect all of the frogs to put on the ark first. The frogs. God damn it, Aaron, the frogs were the only animals in the whole group that could swim! The lions sure as shit won't be able to float with all of that heavy semen in their stomachs. I soon realized that the basis of this game was not earning for yourself a huge fortune in virtual money, but instead, it was about getting these animals out alive.
I finally stopped playing once I achieved the ranking of "Rat Wrangler." For one, I was scared to go further, fearing that I would never beable to surpass the rank of Rat Wrangler as I could not even fathom there being a rank higher than Rat Wrangler. Also, I thought it sounded pretty tough and decided that I was satisfied as being known as Aaron "Rat Wrangler" Hatch from this day forward.
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Monday, December 15, 2003 |
Cell phones need to die. I'm not kidding. One thing I really hate, besides being held hostage and eventually murdered by terrorists, catching the black plague while taking a day trip to medieval Europe, and getting my eye poked out by a pencil that I threw into the ceiling at school, is the cell phone.
Cell phones aren't nearly the necessity society has made them out to be. I had a cell phone once, and I hardly used it. I wasn't one of those paranoid closet types who was so afraid of ear cancer that I constructed a special helmet that I wore only when talking on the phone. Nope, I made that helmet just for fun. Granted, I probably would have used my phone a lot more had I ever turned it on. I think people got discouraged after the first few times they called and found that it was never on and just deleted my name from their phonebook. Don't worry about it, guys, I know it wasn't personal. Also, it might have had something to do with the fact that my provider rented out my voice mailbox to somebody named "Hi, Elijah is not available right now". I have since abandoned my cell phone; however, I'd just like to warn Elijah for his craftily conceived plan to steal my voice mail- be careful where you sit.
Now, I'm not going to pretend that I'm this guy that has everybody he meets asking him for his cell phone number. I'm not that guy. I met him once, and yes, I asked him for his cell phone number, but it was only a formality. But there are those rare occasions when people have asked me for my cell phone number and I have had to break the awful truth to them that no such number exists. Their reaction is always the same: utter astonishment. The look they give me often causes me to check my face for hideous growths. I ask them, "Is the side of my head growing a face again? I got some cream for that but the doctor said he might come back." It's sad that they find my lack of a cell phone more shocking than the fact that there is a face growing out of the side of my head. It's as if having a cell phone is the defining characteristic of being a human being these days. Psst...I heard that guy over there doesn't have a cell phone, I bet he doesn't drink expensive French bottled water either, chuh!
Screw them, that’s all I have to say. I scowl at them with both my faces.
The use of cell phones on campus is particularly ridiculous. Admit it, you've got your daily routine down to a science. Every day you do basically the same thing. Everybody knows where you are, and you know where everybody else is. And if they're not there, you can probably guess within a couple tries where they are. Our behavior is pathetically predictable; however, this clockwork-like structure has helped me lose my intense fear of the outside world that I used to possess from living in the very unpredictable suburbs of Connecticut. There’s no telling what kinds of horrors you might find when walking down the street to the local Foodbag. Modern life is so rife with peril that it is best to simply accept that you could and probably will die at a stranger's hand instead of returning your overdue videos. In my mind I have constructed every possible outcome, including methods of destruction and exact location in frighteningly detailed scenarios that cover a collection of weather conditions. For example, “It was Colonel Mustard in the ball room with the candle stick.” The idea is that it won't surprise me all that much when I encounter that voracious, escaped jaguar that was hiding out in my refrigerator when I was merely looking for a few eggs to make a jaguar omelet. I had no idea where I would find a jaguar to make such an omelet, and it is ironic that he handed himself to me, gnashing jaws and tearing claws to boot.
Did you know that in some parts of the world there are poisonous blow darts that could kill a full-grown man? Imagine what something like that would do to a dog... or maybe even a small mouse, perhaps a short haired seal point fox buck to be precise? Yipes.
But enough about my paralyzing fear of being killed by breakfast foods and blow darts, and on to the matter at hand. Why do you need to call your friend who lives right down the hall from you to see if they're in their room? Why can't you just walk over and see? It'll be good to actually get up for a while; the exercise will help you burn off those six chicken patties you ate for lunch today. Cell phones make things so boring, in one phone call you can find out exactly where somebody is and then go meet them there. Wouldn't it be much more exciting to go out on an adventure and find them, as if you were hunting wild game in the rain forest? (Although I can’t recommend actually hunting wild game in the rain forest, as the odds of encountering a ravenous jaguar is even more likely under those circumstances.) Then at least you'd have a decent excuse when campus security finds the collection of machetes you have under your bed, freak. I saw you polishing them the other day with the blood of your roommate and I know that stain on your shirt was not cherry filling. You might have had me fooled with raspberry jam though… just a tip for the future. In case you hadn't noticed the silliness of the cell phone use on campus, here is a sample conversation so that you can realize just how stupid you all sound.
The phone rings in some obnoxious ring tone that is far too loud.
Johnny K: Yello.
Billy J: Yo, what's up?
Johnny K: What's going on?
Billy J: What are you up to?
Johnny K: What'chu doin'?
Billy J: Where you at?
Johnny K: My room, where you at?
Billy J: My room. Yo, you wanna go to the bar later?
Johnny K: Yeah, that sounds good, you going?
Billy J: Yeah, I'll be there.
Johnny K: Any girls going?
Billy J: Yeah, they'll be there.
Johnny K: All right, I'll meet you there in half an hour?
Billy J: Yeah, I'll be there.
Johnny: Peace.
Billy J: Peace.
It is important to note that the same exact conversation occurred at the same exact time last night. Granted, you might say that my hatred for cell phones is simply a badly disguised attempt to mask my jealousy for the cell phone bearing multitudes and I would say, so what? So what if I think it would be cool to hear 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” every time someone calls me. It’s not my fault he’s such a talented musician.
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Wednesday, December 10, 2003 |
Yuletide greetings, you bunch of fucks!
It seems as if the Holidays are creeping up on us ever so quickly now, like a deranged Catholic priest in the church basement during a blackout. And with Christmas looming overhead, rampant commercialism has been revitalized and given new power over our wallets. Christmas means a great many things: the arrival of the baby Jesus for one, but who really cares about that? More importantly, where the hell are all my presents?
My love for all things Christmas, especially getting a ton of free shit and drinking some of that “adult” egg nog, is particularly potent given the fact that I am no stranger to bad gifts. Yes, that’s right, over the years I have given possibly the worst presents in Christmas’ history. I make good gift givers like Santa bury his bearded face in his hands. That is, when I actually even bother to give gifts, which is a very rare occasion. But you know, every once and a while if I have some old CDs lying around or a crusted up sock that’s starting to chafe, the spirit of generosity consumes me. Oh… wait, what I meant is, I love Christmas despite the fact that I always get bad gifts. Like, there was that one year where I only got pretty much everything I ever wanted. Talk about worst Christmases ever, huh? That still hurts me right here, man. That particular Christmas will haunt me to the end of my days. Probably mostly because that was the same year I accidentally lit my brother on fire with a Yule log and was the direct cause of his lack of eyebrows, but I’m sure the sloppy gift giving had something to do with it. Although, it doesn’t help that I accidentally burned many of the gifts along with my brother’s face, so hell, who knows? Maybe it would have been a good Christmas if I weren’t such a fucking retard.
But seriously, I love Christmas even though every year I ask for a certain thing and for 18 years straight I haven’t gotten it. Surely, by now, the prices will have dropped. Surely, by now, it would have been on sale. At the very least I have got to believe there was an applicable coupon in the Sunday paper sometime in the past two decades. You see, every year I pray for my next door neighbor to stop staring at me through his telescope throughout every waking hour and pretty much every night. One year I thought I was going to finally get it, but it turned out my neighbor had just gotten himself a more powerful telescope that he let me know can see into the bathroom too. Then he got a big Christmas bonus, and I thought that maybe he would be able to buy some other teenaged boys that he will not only be able to look at, but he could actually touch them too. But no… what did he do with his money instead? He built an addition on to his house making his window even closer to mine. That sounds ridiculous, but get this, there are times in the summer when my window is open and I can feel his breath on my neck.
It’s about time people started giving decent gifts. I read in an article bestowing on parents tips about buying presents and it said that parents should buy toys that focus on what they want their children to be like when they grow up. The tip read, “decide what you would like your child to be, then only buy toys that steer him or her in that direction.”
You can imagine my surprise when I realized that my parents wanted me to be a super hero! And my friend’s parents wanted him to be a truck. So many parents out there must be disappointed with their children. I mean, how many kids do you know turned out to be trucks or dinosaurs? They’re few and far between, and that’s a damn shame. What do you think the numbers are? One in a hundred? That’s being pretty generous, I think.
I’m sure parents grow especially giddy when Halloween comes around too, so they can dress their kids up as bloodied army men and magical princesses and imagine what they’ll look like when their entrails are splattered across Baghdad or when they’re holed up in a castle tower somewhere with a dragon stomping around outside. They imagine their kids writing back to them, documenting their great successes thus far. “Hi, Mom and Dad. I would write more often but a Palestinian suicide bomber obliterated my hands. Love, Joe,” or “Dearest Mother, Dearest Father, regretfully I inform thee that I hath been captured by a fearsome dragon and he hast taken mine womanhood unto himself. We hath made plans to runeth away together and are betrothed to wed in Vegas. Your loving daughter, Gweneth.”
Seriously though, what the hell are parents today thinking? Dressing their kids up as witches and Ninja Turtles. Who the hell is going to grow up to be a God damned Ninja Turtle? Yeah, newsflash mommy, mutagen isn’t widely available yet so little Timmy probably won’t be acquiring three fingers and a shell any time soon. My parents wanted me to be a devil, one year. And then they changed their mind and the next year I was a pumpkin. A pumpkin, for God’s sake. Not only do they want me to be a fruit when I grow up, but they also want to turn me into a pie. Or maybe they want to carve me up with intricate patters and bury burning candles in my chest cavity. Do parents ever ask their kids what they want to do with their lives? Do I look like I want to spend a month on somebody’s front porch and then get thrown in a compost heap? Now there’s a lofty ambition.
I knew this girl and every year her parents made her a pirate. Not even a girl pirate. A boy pirate. If anything, a gay pirate, although I’m not too sure whether any kind of distinction needs to be made there. And she always had a charcoal beard and an eye patch. Her parents wanted her to be a man, unclean, and deformed. That’s about the most heartless tale of child rearing I ever bore witness to. It’s a good thing there wasn’t a huge market for pirate toys back in the day, otherwise she might have actually gone off on a boat somewhere, realized that she can’t pilot a boat, and drown. However, that might not have been such a bad alternative to what she ended up doing with her life, which is dropping out of high school and moving in with the very same high school’s janitor. I guess I must have missed the Halloween she went out as trailer trash.
Parents ought to be a little more realistic with their Christmas presents and Halloween costumes. Instead of zombies and Power Rangers, parents should costume their children as doctors, lawyers. Now those are at least as scary as a legion of brain eating undead. You could have a bunch of practicing proctologists and gynecologists running around on Halloween night. People surely would be scared of those little bastards dipping their hands into the all the candy, touching all the Baby Ruths and Sugar Daddies before deciding upon a pack of Twizzlers. And then the lawyers, well, shit; they’re pretty fucking scary regardless of where their hands have been.
For Christmas, they should stop giving their kids mountain bikes and Furbies; those are not realistic professions! How about a nice chemistry kit or a lesson in interior design? Where are the Bill Gates action figures? Where are the new World Trade Center erector sets? Parents of the world, having your kid grow up to believe he’s a Cabbage Patch doll is not going to take care of you when you’re old. A Cabbage Patch doll couldn’t even afford to put you in some lonely convalescent home. Where are they going to put their money? They don’t have pockets, just cute little button noses! Adorable as cute little button noses are, they’re not going to pay the bills, I’m sorry.
So when you go out shopping this holiday season, don’t get too wound up in the latest gift trends. Give smartly, or suffer the bitter consequences. Hear my credo: shop smart, or don’t bother shopping. Just like safe sex, the safest shopping is to not shop at all.
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Friday, December 05, 2003 |
I would like to proudly present the first ever, and probably last ever, Tripeatholon. Note, I would like to, however, that is not possible as I have never been more ashamed of anything before in my life. And why is it probably the last one ever even though things with "atholon" or even just "athon" and sometimes even "bonanza" are recurring events? It's simple, friends, I do not ever want to even think about undergoing this kind of torture again.
At 11:30 today I arrived at The Soul Crusher, as it is commonly referred to, but those who aren't routinely battered down by its time freezing properties probably call it the "JMH Public Access Computer Labs". At 12:30 I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was 12:30. Joyfully I thought to myself, "only two mind numbing hours left!" And then my boss arrived. This occassion is always accompanied by a feeling of intense dread in my heart, but never has it been more appropriate. He informed me that because it is a noreaster outside, he is letting the commuter students go home early but needs a resident student to fill in for all their shifts. I believe he said something like this, "Aaron, I need a resident student to fill in for all the commuter students." I looked at him, puzzled, and said, "Huh. Well I need to eat lunch, but we always can't get exactly what we want, it seems!" He looked at me, smiled deviously and said, "Go to lunch." I thought to myself, "Good God, Christmas has come early. Smell ya later!" And then he told me, "You have to take a half an hour lunch break when you work more than 5 hours straight." My heart sank. If God has thumbs, he has crushed me under one of them this day.
You may not understand my feeling of absolute demoralization if you don't fully understand just how horrible this place actually is. Five hours straight would not be bad if you were working in, say, a blow job testing facility. However, when you add and hour and a half to that five hours, your dick starts to get a little sore. Similarly, my dick will be getting pretty sore by the time this shift is over after masturbating under the desk for six and a half hours nonstop. Don't you judge me! I'm not some kind of perverted pizzaface who can't even control his own sexual desires. Wait... I just described every teenage male on the planet, in which case, I am a perverted pizzaface who can't even control his own sexual desires. But that's besides the point. Not really, but let's say it is anyway. It's not like I actually enjoy doing this, I'm just so bored. I jest, this place is far more fearsome than a blow job factory. I'll share with you a secret. There have been times when I've walked in the door and thought for a second that I might have taken a wrong turn out of the elevator and accidentally stumbled upon the Gates of Hell and that they're more terrible than anything I could have imagined/hoped for that bastard third grader who stepped on my Sgt. Slaughter action figure and broke his legs when I was six. He does deserve some thanks, I suppose, since without him I never would have realized that real American heroes aren't invincible and might have ended up doing something stupid with my life, like... shit, serve my country.
So I have just arrived back at the lab after a grueling trek back to my dorm room. I couldn't even make it to the cafeteria because I didn't have enough time, instead opting to eat far too many poptarts. Result: I feel sort of ill. When I came back to the lab, I was greeted with, "Wow! Is it really snowing out there?!" I pointed to the huge, 10 foot tall windows against the wall of the lab pointing out to the north pole outside. I suppose they couldn't see the snow through all of that white stuff in the way. Their stupidity continues to surprise me. First, they didn't know how to save to a disk. Then, they didn't know how to turn on a computer. And now, oh now, now they don't even know how to look out of a window.
What is this Tripeatholon, exactly? It's my feeble attempt at actually making it out of this shift alive. Why, look here! There are only 5 hours left! I'm already an hour and a half in! This won't be so bad! ...Oh my God, I'm already going insane. I'll be posting every 15 minutes to a half an hour at first, but as the hours creep onward it will probably become an incessant flow of nonsensical drivel. Simply put, the Tripeatholon is a real time account of one man's descent into madness.
1:16- My friend IMed me asking if I wanted to go snowboarding down a huge stair set on campus and get really hurt. He said it will be a lot of fun. No shit, fucks, of course it'll be a lot of fun. Shoving a glass pipette up my urethra and smashing it with a mallet would be more fun than the agony I have to suffer today. I think Satan paid him off to tease me. Traitorous hellhound. His response?
Lou: Yea...this fuckin place sucks right now.
Aaron: Don't you talk to me about what sucks!
1:30 PM- My boss has just informed me that all classes have been cancelled. For some reason, instead of going home or going out to play in the snow, everybody has decided to come to the labs and break everything. I don't want to start making assumptions of how things are going to turn out today so quickly, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say that this does not bode well. I'm not a betting man, but if I was going to put my hard earned dollars on a horse, it would be on the one that thinks this is totally going to suck. Horses don't like to be kept up inside a small room filling with whirling, whizzing machines and a race of prehuman creatures who desire only the frustration of mankind. Horses like to run free in the outside. Maybe I could be a horse.
1:45 PM- To entertain myself I decided to print out about five thousand pages worth of false announcements of different campus activities and wallpaper the labs with them. Some examples: "The Great Campus Bake! Come show off your baking talents with the rest of the people who are going to go under the impression that this is a marijuana related activity. You guys want some cookies?", "Help Wildlife! Manually Masturbate Caged Animals For Artificial Insemination... hehe... insemination," "Do you want to roam free in the great open plains? Come to our free seminar next Monday about learning to be a horse," "Help Wildlife! Manually Masturbate Caged People Who Believe That They Are Horses For Artificial Insemination... pffff... insemination is still funny," and "Looking for gay roommate, wait... nevermind, already have one." I've put them everywhere. Bathroom stalls, the mirrors in the bathroom, the ceiling in the bathroom, half of the computer monitors, this girl's back who fell asleep at a desk, the walls of the elevator, my own back when I fell asleep at a desk, amongst other various places. I've begun to realize the perks of being the only one with authority in the computer lab. It's much like not having any authority at all because I have a sinking feeling that when my boss finds those I'm going to be in a lot trouble. I think he may hurt me. Emotionally, of course, but that's the worst kind of hurt. That's the kind of hurt that doesn't heal. Perhaps I should not have signed my name on all of the flyers. Damn it. Also, what now? Furthermore, damn it.
2:00 PM- I hate all of the people that come to this lab. For no reason really, other than the fact that they are here and I wish that they were not.
2:03 PM- The printer has just let me know that it is low on toner. Well, Printer, I'm low on giving a shit so why don't you reach deep down inside yourself and find the toner to go on. Fuck, man, I'm doing it and I'm a mere mortal. Computers are pussies.
2:14 PM- Did you know there isn't even a suffix "atholon"? There is only "athlon." I thought the word was "triatholon," not "triathlon". People always say "triatholon." Atholetes compete in triatholons. I sure do feel like a stupid idiot now! What the fuck is a Tripeatholon? That's like me running around with a huge sign that says, "Hey everybody, we're dumb!" They say that honesty is where true comedy comes from and I'm definitely laughing right now. It could be because we really are dumb, but I think that's only to keep myself from crying. I feel like a battered wife.
2:18 PM- Hey, refresh the page. Oh my God, that crazy guy posted something else! I sure do feel bad for him!
2:30 PM- Friends don't do this to friends, Kira.
Kira: Alright, continue with your... writings. I'm going to go eat, a luxury you can't afford. And when I come back, you will still be here.
Aaron: ...crueler words have never been spoken.
My mother once told me that it's unkind and unchristian to make sport of the mentally handicapped. Keep that in mind, Kira. We all can't be as "sane" as you. We all can't have "complete control" over our mental faculties. We all can't "pee with our pants down." Another time, my mother said that racism would not be tolerated in her house after I made a big fake boom box out of a cardboard refrigerator box and held it on my shoulder saying, "Hey Mom! Look, I'm black!"
2:40 PM- There are times when the people in this lab could really grow on a guy. On occassion, they make me feel so much better about myself. Like, just a minute ago I was feeling like a stupid idiot because I foolishly thought that "atholon" was a suffix, when this doofus came over to ask me how to make text bold in Microsoft Word. At least, that's what I think she wanted, I had some trouble interpretting the "ooks" between the "eeks". I reluctantly showed the primitive critter how to work magic with Word, which she was thoroughly impressed by. I imagine she was probably still concentrating on rubbing two sticks together in a poor attempt to make fire. Bold type was probably a little too big of a step for her. Steps are weird for her kind though, since they walk on both their feet and their knuckles.
At any rate, in order to make an example of her so that everybody else in the lab realized that asking retarded questions is in now way encouraged around here as long as I'm the Lab Tyrant I stomped back to the desk. I stomped. I have a cat back home that stomps. His name is Otto and he's pretty antisocial and doesn't like humanity at all. He just keeps us around instead of slashing our jugulars in our sleep so we can feed him. He liked us for a while when we used to dope him up on cat nip; he didn't stomp then. Nope, back then Otto would just run around in circles in the back yard faster than a Gillete Turbo Mach 3 and then roll on the ground like the fat girl who is conveniently and for once in recorded history, not here. We took the cat nip away though, he got addicted to it and wouldn't do anything but get high. So now Otto spends his days stomping around the house, like he is really angry that he even has to be in a house full of humans who don't even have the decency to provide for his gripping addiction. He stomps from the food dish to the door, and then stomps from the door to the food dish. Stomp stomp stomp. Right now you're probably like, "Hey, Aaron, please stomp talking!"
2:54 PM- JOHN JACOB JINGLE HEIMER SHMIDT!
3:13 PM- If I knew that I would have to work for six and a half hours today I would have killed myself last night. Time machines will be a handy invention. Somebody better be working on that. Forget your cures for AIDs and your destruction of the ozone layer. If you had a time machine, you could just go back to a time when you didn't sleep with that gorilla or when the ozone layer wasn't ruined. ...Was there ever a time when the ozone layer wasn't ruined? Who farted? Hm. Another thing my mother is fond of saying is, "There's no one to blame but yourself."
3:20 PM- Brandon can always put things in perspective.
Aaron: This is a battle, unlike any I have ever fought.
Brandon: You get used to it, but when you do, it really says something about you.
Aaron: That you're now unstoppable and completely unfeeling?
Brandon: "Loser" has always been my first choice.
Now, if only Brandon could explain why that girl at the other end of the lab is still alive. Surely, there is no justice in this world.
3:26 PM- He jumped on top of the counter and shouted, “That’s it, everybody with a cell phone dies!” A frightened young man reached into his coat and grabbed his cell phone. He called his girlfriend and like a total oaf, inquired, “Hey baby, what’s a cell phone?” He heard moaning on the other line, both that of his woman and that of a man, his younger brother who is paralyzed from waist up and is just plain ugly, disregarding any weird paralysis. And with that, the sound of relenteless machine gun fire echoes across the campus. That man who had jumped on the counter now made the sign of the cross and held himself, hiding under the counter. “This might have been a mistake,” he considered.
3:33 PM- I gave myself a mustache with a yellow highlighter. Now I’m like a Swedish Snidley Whiplash. “Get avay from me, Dudley Doovight! You don’t vant to vessel vith me!”
3:38 PM- Now I have yellow sideburns and converted the Snidley-stache to a handlebars mustache. Whoa! Nobody told me Hollywood Hogan worked at the computer lab! Bitchin’!
3:40 - In a fit of absolute boredom, I printed out more flyers and filled in all the white spaces I had left beforehand. At what time was this feat accomplished? Who knows, I decided not to include “AM” or “PM” in the timestamp, so you’ll just have to guess! Am I the elusive nightstalker who strikes the computer labs with phony advertisements in the wee hours of the morn or am I just bonkers, totally nuts? Do you remember the show, Bonkers? That was the one where the cat was the police officer. I don’t recall if he ever stomped or got high.
3:45 PM- Have you ever sent yourself an email because you had nobody else to talk to? …Yeah… uh, me neither, dude.
Dear Aaron,
Hi. How’s it going? Things are a little slow over here today. Turns out I had to work three and a half extra hours today and I’m not even getting paid time and a half for it. On the other hand, my boss patted me on the back. If I was a dog, I would like pats on the back. Do I look like a dog to you?
Forever yours,
Aaron
3:58 PM- I have lost all sense of time. The last time I posted was only thirteen minutes ago but I could have sworn it was an hour. I could have sworn. I was getting up, stretching, sure that my shift was finally almost over. What the hell happened here? There must be tear in the time space continuum right here, and somebody decided it would be a good idea to build a computer lab on top of it. That was probably back when dial up modems just came into vogue and you got charged by the minute. By constructing the building on top of a rift in time, they ended up paying substantially less since time passes at a rate slower than molasses going up hill in December. I don’t know precisely how slow that is, because I’ve never actually done it, but if I can find some molasses within the next hour and a half I’ll give you guys the scoop. No, not a scoop, the molasses is all for me. But don’t think I don’t have the time to see how slow molasses will go up hill in December, because I do. Oh, do I have time.
4:17 PM- A trumpet would be nice to have. Trumpet. Strumpet?
4:21 PM- Apparently, the entire university closed down at 3:00 on account of the the fact that the sky is pouring down like the time I forgot about the "laxatives" in "chocolate tasting laxatives". So I stayed for an entire hour longer than I had to, I wasted so much sanity. All gone. Never coming back. However, I can't say I didn't enjoy this little experiment in "real time" posting. On my way back to the dorm I was feeling pretty much completely drained of all my will to live, but then I saw two guys running around campus in nothing but speedos and Santa hats. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad day after all.
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Monday, December 01, 2003 |
And now for another spectacular installment of “Aaron Hatch’s Backyard Extreme Sports!” Don’t be confused, there has never before been an installment of “Aaron Hatch’s Backyard Extreme Sports!”, I just find that by saying that then you will be more inclined to read it. I’m not sure of the logic that lies in that assumption; I guess that maybe you will think that you read the last one and assure yourself that it must have been good. Or perhaps you’ll think that it must have sucked and therefore will be even less inclined to read this one. Or maybe I don’t even know what the hell I am talking about anymore. What am I talking about? Does anybody know? Please send help!
Well, no matter how you reason it out, it was a dirty trick and my only explanation is that sometimes I’m prone to feeling a little dirty. (Note to self: Shower more often) Hm. (Note to self: Wipe thoroughly next time.) Oh, sorry. One more thing. (Note to self: Actually, wiping at all would be good.) Oh, and also it should be noted that most, if not all, of these extreme sports don’t have anything to do with being in your backyard; I just like the name. Let’s get on with it though, so we can finally get it over with. I tell ya, I am so over this whole “posting” thing. When does the part where people start handing me bags of money come in?
I think the name “extreme” sports as used today is a little misleading. I mean, are they only called “extreme” because there is a risk of injury involved? Because let me tell you, there is some amount of injury involved in a time honored sport that revolves around you getting plowed by a 350 pound ex-con in body armor just because you have a ball in your hands. And if you’re going to use that definition, shit, being a white cheerleader for the Los Angeles Lakers is pretty fucking extreme. I’d like to reinvent extreme sports so that the name is more appropriate. No longer will simple injury, disfigurement, or permanent paralyzation be on the line; no, instead, death will be on the line. Oh, you don’t think the bar has been sufficiently raised; maybe the italics weren’t imposing enough for you? Well then, my fearless friend, how about your reputation in the Free Masons and your son’s sexual orientation be put on the line as well? Don’t talk to me about being extreme, all right? You don’t get any more extreme than this. No, you don’t even reach out and touch this amount of extreme with your index finger. Take a deep breath, and maybe you’ll catch some wind of my kind of extremity. See, this is how extreme I’m talking. I think you’ll find it’s quite extreme, indeed.
Extreme Figure Skating: Figure skating has to be one of the most boring sports on television. What am I talking about? There’s no need to make a stipulation about it being on television. It’s boring all the time. There was a time when I could at least gain a moderate erection from watching the women jump around in their short skirts but then I figured out that by simply placing a pinhole camera in the women’s locker room I could achieve a similar effect and not have to deal with nearly the amount of classical music. Now a days I can barely stand watching it. You might be asking why I persistently watch figure skating when it bores me so. You might even ask why any male human watches figure skating. I submit that my undying love for modern sports holds me fast to my chair each time a figure skating competition is on. Yes, sports! And raw meat! Which reminds me, I have to go lift weights soon… I have a jazzercize class today.
But lets move past my personal life, please. How exactly will I make figure skating more extreme? You all remember the classic Nintendo game, Duck Hunt? If not, you surely played Clay Shooter. They were exactly the same game, just one involved shooting ducks and you had a meddling dog that would steal all your ducks whereas the other let you keep your fallen clay, the spoils of a hard days work at the shooting range. Apparently the dog ruined his appetite on all of your duck... that bastard... and decided to stay home when you went hunting for elusive flying clay. I propose we make Extreme Figure Skating something like Duck Hunt, where every time the skater jumps up to do one of their sky dancing whirly gig maneuvers everybody in the stands takes a shot at them. And then a dog will run out and drag the body under the deck and bury it… that bastard. Hell, why not throw a zamboni or two into the mix while we're at it. They can go off jumps and through rings of fire... and only midgets will be allowed to drive them! And... and... there will be cheerleaders that walk up and down the aisles handing out 100 dollar bills and possessing mystical beer flavored tits! It'll be lovely! Figure skating will probably become something of a dying art after these new rules are instituted, as people will probably not be all that interested in dying for a living. Then again, women out there keep becoming my girlfriend, so perhaps people take death lightly these days. Maybe I am not as extreme as I once thought.
Driving: I feel no need to dub the following sport, “extreme driving,” as simply getting in your car at any time is fairly extreme. At least when I’m on the road, it is. A common misconception is that driving is simply a mode of transportation people use to get from point A to point B. First of all, never once in my 18 years of living have I looked at a map and seen either point A or point B. Second of all, driving is a constant internal struggle between a person’s human nature and their animalistic desires. By simply starting the engine of a car, rabid desires are born inside of you. You are controlling a devastating weapon, amplified by the consumption of alcohol or a gun in the glove compartment. However, every other person on the road is also in control of this weapon, unless of course they’re driving a Mini Cooper. And this is where the sport begins.
There are many different variations of Driving: The Sport played on the world’s roadways today, for instance, Driving: World Wide Roadkill League, Driving: Copper Killer, Driving: In Reverse, Driving: Off a Bridge With Your Girlfriend Tied Up in the Trunk, amongst others. Possibly the most popular today is Driving: With a Vengeance which has very loosely defined rules, the only general one being that you are right and everybody else must die. I believe it was adapted from another extreme sport, Work Place Annihilation. I’m not here to talk about these sports, though. Instead, I’d like to elaborate on Stop Sign Extravaganza.
Stop Sign Extravaganza has been played since the advent of the stop sign. The most prevalent street sign you will ever encounter during the course of your travels is the stop sign. Many interpret this sign to mean, “stop”, but they are ignorant and gullible saps. The more informed drivers of the world know that the stop sign isn't exactly a concrete rule, but more of one man’s opinion. Keep in mind; this man was a weak, uncompetitive pussy. Don’t listen to him. His signs are relics of a time where the earth was a safe place to live. That is not to say; however, that there does not exist another opinion about the nature of the stop sign. Many people don't understand why there are so many stop signs throughout the world, but this is because they simply can't see the "big picture". (Important note: any time quotes surround a word that is not in dialogue, there is obviously a big picture involved, so that means that when the word “big picture” is in quotes, there is a really big picture involved.) All governments are collaborating with the major oil companies, choosing to place stop signs at the most inconvenient of places, such as major intersections. The abundance of these signs results in increased gasoline demand, therefore making the oil industry filthy rich, ultimately making governments filthy rich. The government has not made its millions by taxing your cigarettes, fools. It’s the damned stop signs! I've been told by some of my friends who live deep in the woods that the UN and Area 51 is somehow involved, but I'm fairly sure that UFOs don't use gasoline. I think they're powered by a hybrid fuel made of coal and the blood of infant seals.
There are two teams in Stop Sign Extravaganza, you, and the Stop Signs and the basic principle of the game is to ignore the other team as much as possible. There are a few rules. I mean, this sport is not completely lawless. This isn’t Canada for chrissake. You should only come to a complete stop at the stop sign if one of the following requirements are met: 1) There is a car traveling across the street at an intersecting angle. 2) A crippled woman, retarded child, or nun is crossing the street in front of you (in which case you should start honking your horn and make colorful, animated gestures if they haven't passed by in two seconds). 3) If it's a crippled, retarded nun, you should give her an extra four seconds before flooring it. 4) The transmission just fell out of your car and your vehicle won't move. And finally, 5) You are not actually in a car but are having an acid flashback. Sit down for a bit and call poison control, they’ll tell you where all the pills went.
In all other situations, stopping is only a useless formality, not to mention completely illegal in the game of Stop Sign Extravaganza. So therefore, feel free to run right through the sign if: 1) You're in a hurry. 2) You were in a hurry. 3) You will hypothetically be in a hurry sometime in the near future. 4) Due to temporary insanity, you have forgotten where the brakes are. 5) You are afraid there's a bomb in your vehicle that will cause it to detonate if it comes to a complete halt. 5) The voices in your head command you to constantly travel at 90 miles an hour or the Dark Lord Lucifer will become displeased and turn all the black people in the world white, instantly canceling all of UPN’s shows. 6) Your car is one of those "newer Japanese models" that don't decelerate but have lots of cool stickers on the windshield instead. 7) There's a spider on the gas pedal and you're trying to kill it. 8) You're pregnant (works only for women and fat feminine men). 9) You have nice breasts, give me a call some time (works only for women and fat feminine men) 10) There is a bitchin' Loverboy song on the radio and you can't help but "rock out". 11) You're about to miss "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" on Bravo. Shit, you’re paying for the subscription; you can’t afford to miss an episode! I mean, jumping Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, now that Martha Stewart's gone who else will teach us how to turn rusty car parts and leftover Chinese food into ornamental table centerpieces?
All of those excuses are perfectly legit things to say when attempting to talk yourself out of a ticket, so feel free to use them when pulled over. If that doesn't work, attempt to bribe the officer with some of the loose change in your glove compartment or the half eaten Baby Ruth I saw underneath the seat that time I was trying to hot wire your car. If that fails as well, try to take his gun and sell it back to him. Of course, by “sell it back to him” I mean shoot him in the face with it. And this is where Driving: Stop Sign Extravaganza convenes with Driving: Copper Killer.
I had another idea but this post has come close to fulfilling the criterion for “Extreme Posting” and I don’t think I’m ready for that level of competition just yet. Oh, and just so you know, while I provided for you these ideas in detail it does not mean they were good ideas at all. What it comes down to is, when the police officer asks you who told you to blow his face off, you didn’t hear it from me. Blame it on videogames if you have to, you don't know me anymore!
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Aaron's
List
Film: Collateral
Game: None it seems
Music: The Suicide Machines- Scars
Text: Dry- Augusten Burroughs
Activity: Skateboarding, school, avoiding working as much as possible
Anticipating: Nothing really, I guess
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
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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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| inseminating
evidence |
| Number
of Posts Mentioning...
Killing: 76
"fuck": 60
Homosexuality: 56
Masturbation: 48
Genital Disease/Disfigurement: 32
Star Wars: 18
Horsies: 10
Burning Magma/Lava: 6
Spiders: 7
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
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