Me...surprised?

So, I'm sick and dying and bored so I just took that IQ test (apparently the real one) at some web site and here are the results...

"Congratulations, Guido!
Your IQ score is 131

This number is the result of a formula based on how many questions you answered correctly on Emode's Ultimate IQ test. Your IQ score is scientifically accurate.

During the test, you answered four different types of questions — mathematical, visual-spatial, linguistic and logical. We analyzed how you did on each of those questions which reveals how your brain uniquely works.

We also compared your answers with others who have taken the test. According to the sorts of questions you got correct, we can tell your Intellectual Type is a Visionary Philosopher.

This means you are highly intelligent and have a powerful mix of skills and insight that can be applied in a variety of different ways. Like Plato, your exceptional math and verbal skills make you very adept at explaining things to others — and at anticipating and predicting patterns."

Between this and my genius nuts, I got bragging rights galore until I walk into a pole again or something. I am SOOOO smurt. SMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURT

Long Day Pt.1:All Saddam, All The Fucking Time, Pt.2:Baby Jesus: Bornto Rock, Pt.3:R&B:The Formula

Ok, so everything beneath this sentence was written during my 7am to 7pm shift at the hospital where I work as switchboard operator last Sunday, the 14th…quite a long day…

12.14.03
9:47 am
At this moment it is 9:47 AM and I am in the Communications center at TCC (the hospital I sometimes work at as switchboard operator). I’ve been here for two hours and forty-eight minutes now and when I walked in at seven, the radio was set to WCBS, the news station. I don’t know if any of you ever listen to WCBS, but here’s how it goes: Something happens…anything and it is talked about over and over and over and over ALL FUCKING DAY. This story (today it happens to be the capture of Saddam Hussein) is reported, then the weather is given, then a commercial, then sports, then commercials, then Saddam, then traffic, then a commercial, then Saddam, then weather, then a commercial, then sports, then a commercial, then Saddam et fucking cetera, literally, all day. If you are skeptic, try it some time. Then picture yourself locked in a small room with this radio for twelve hours. The only things that changes in these news “reports” are the descriptive terms. “The people of Iraq are: joyous/jubilant/happy/celebrant/horny/dancing/exultant/erect/slimy/tall after hearing the news.” At the start of the day it was simply them talking incessantly about “unconfirmed reports” which they kept reporting until finally some top brass nut sac over in Iraq made a two minute statement…which was then sampled incessantly over and over and over and over. I heard that Fuck Stick G. Paul Willard or whatever say, "Ladies and gentlemen…(pause meaningfully because you know this is the equivalent of the moon landing or the invention of Viagra and you know it will be quoted for THOUSANDS of years to come)…we got him” about nine hundred times. Then there are the sports. Since there are only five sets of scores, they were listed about six thousand times. Then, of course, the absolutely in-depth DISCUSSIONS about the weather. I swear to God that I would rather them try to count the snowflakes than TALK about the snow. Jesus. I hate Saddam more for being caught than for all his atrocities. Then again, they would have just jabbered about some other shit. God I hate things.
P.S. Among the other things I hate are the people who say, “Does this mean the war is over?” almost as many times as, “And now…more on the Capture of Saddam Hussein…on WCBS…dun dun dun…

10:57 am
Okay, so some well-meaning but utterly damned-for-their-crime-against-humanity person just changed the station to…before I say it I want you all to imagine something worse than what I mentioned before…oh and New York City does NOT have any country music stations before you jump to that almost-equally-beshitted conclusion. Did you guess yet? Wrong. The answer is fucking “lite” stations that convert to “all your favorite Christmas music ALL THE TIME” starting November first. I figured out the reason why I hate Christmas music (this kind, at least) so much. It really has nothing to do with my feelings for or against Christmas. Not at all. It has to do with the fact that this kind of music sucks blood-laced shit from the still-warm anus of an obese suicide. THAT’S why I hate it, because it does that whole shit thing. Those goddamned breathy renditions of “Do You Hear What I Hear?”, those fucking twangy-ass versions of “The First Noel”, those creepy pre-pubescent covers of “Little Drummer Boy” and worst of all: any and every song that uses a Casio keyboard to imitate bells, trumpets, violins or any fucking instrument. The list of good Christmas songs is very short and includes the following songs:
First, Prince’s “Another Lonely Christmas.” This song is about one of Prince’s girlfriends who died on Christmas a few years before. Every Christmas since then he “drinks banana daiquiris until I’m blind”. I think it’s amazing to have a Christmas song in which the only thing that is associated with Christmas is loss and death. So sad, so powerful, so lovesexy. Only Prince can make a dead love sexy.
Next, the They Might Be Giants In Holidayland EP. This EP features the songs:
“Careless Santa”, which is about a guy retelling his tale of a Careless Santa. “Bag of money/Was all I asked him for” and Santa delivers…by robbing a bank then dropping the money down the chimney and breaking the guy’s arm. Then, the police trace the money back to the guy who is unable to escape because of his broken arm.
There’s also “Santa’s Beard” which features the line “I saw my baby wearing Santa’s beard/She kissed him once and whispered in his ear/I wish he would go/He’s breaking up my home”. That there kind of sums up the song although there is a lot more to it. Then there’s “Santa Claus” a song by the Sonics, covered by TMBG. This song is about wanting everything for Christmas and getting nothing…for not particular reason. Also, the original German version of “O Tannenbaum” sung slow and sad. Very “all I want for Christmas is my two slit wrists”. Finally there’s “Feast of Lights”, a crushingly depressing Chanukah song about only seeing people around the holidays, but fighting bitterly with them nonetheless.
Also on this short list are two songs by eels. The first, “Christmas Is Going to The Dogs” is a Christmas song from a dog’s perspective. Sounds borderline, I know, but since it’s written and performed by E (lead singer and mastermind of eels, you uneducated floozy) it isn’t corny at all, it ends up sounding ironic and smirking, plus, it, like the next song, rocks hard. There’s also “Everything’s Gonna Be Cool This Christmas” which sounds, just like “Christmas Is Going to The Dogs”, borderline corny, but again since it’s eels, it is anything but. The title is not a true fact, but more a fevered mantra muttered by the singer in order to assure himself that, no matter how bad it was last year or the year before “everything’s gonna be cool THIS Christmas”, but based on the lyrics, sarcastic and biting and intoned with such contempt and disbelief, he can’t quite convince himself.
Aside from these, there’s a Beck song called “Little Drum Machine Boy” which is indescribably and stratospherically funky. Funkier than James Brown’s underwear.
Those are the only songs with lyrics that I will tolerate/enjoy. As far as instrumentals go, wow, that’s a dangerous country. Since most instrumental Christmas music drives me into a genocidal rage (due to the aforementioned fucking Casio keyboard mutations) but there is something excellent in this field: The Vince Guraldi Trio’s score to “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown”. This soundtrack is made up of tired old Christmas songs played softly and subtly by one of the greatest Jazz trio’s ever and it also features the funniest/creepiest Christmas song I’ve ever heard called “Christmastime is Here Again”. That is the only original/vocal track on the album. Everything else is bass, piano and drums- REAL bass, REAL piano and REAL drums, not a Casio in earshot.
See, pretty short fucking list, and yet I still hear abysmal R&B versions of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”, “fun” bluesy permutations of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and more shit in that same vein. Then there are the “funny” or “clever” Christmas songs; parodies and “kooky” Christmas songs like “Christmas in Hollis” by Run DMC and “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer.” These “funny” songs serve only to insult, bore and enrage the listener. And personally, I feel that “Christmas in Hollis” is the reason the guy from Run DMC was gunned down, but that’s just me. Oh and P.S., all of those “A Very Special Christmas” CD’s? I feel that each and every participant in these should be given AIDS for making life that much worse for those who are going to be alive for the twenty or thirty thousand repeat playings. Those AIDS patients are lucky! They just get a letter signed by this famous people saying, “Hey there!! Sorry you’re dying of a terrible disease, but don’t worry, the pain and agony you feel now will be visited upon the world ten thousand fold once we record this fucking album. You’ll be long gone and hopefully the news that this atrocity shall be committed will make you feel better about dying! Best Wishes, Vanessa Williams/Elton John/ Yo Yo Ma/Simon etc.”
And “Jingle Bell Rock”? No. No no NO! “Jingle Bells” should NOT be made to “rock,” it should stop and be forgotten. Just fucking end. Bam. Done.
With all this terrible music floating around and stabbing us in the brain, is anyone really surprised that the suicide rate is so high? I’ll tell you one thing, no one is slitting their wrists because of Jesus, they’re doing it because of goddamn Kenny fucking G and his skin flute. He should wrap his lips ad the barrel of a shotgun and record that.
And Elvis donga Christmas song? Fuck that! He’s as Christian as Satan’s gay, heroin-addict brother. Why the fuck didn’t he ever record a song about jerking off to fat girls in white cotton panties wrestling? It would have meant more. Then John Lennon doing that creepy “drugged children on backup” song? Why the hell would he write a song about Jesus’ Birthday? He’s bigger than him. Asshole.
You know, one of the biggest problems is that there isn’t a shitload of Christmas songs to begin with. That’s why there are about eighty different shitty versions each of the dozen of so songs that exist and the rest are shitty original works. The one thing I will support wholeheartedly is Jingle Dogs. That’s some dope shit.

“I Hope That I Get Anal for Christmas”
By
Guido Paparazzi

Verse 1
The tree is up, the snow is down
Even Ebenezer couldn’t wear a frown
The kids are all thinking of that Santa clown
But not me, baby, I’m dreaming of your brown

Chorus
I hope I get anal for Christmas
I really hope that I do
I hope you’ll let me baby
Let me stick it in your poo

Verse 2
The town is dressed in flashing lights
Even the Grinch wouldn’t put up a fight
Hon, you shouldn’t be afraid of my Manly Might
Please let me get anal tonight

Chorus

Verse 3
The children are sledding, you can hear them shout
They think they know what this season’s about
Well, they don’t, but I do, without a doubt
Now I’ll put my penis where the poop comes out

Chorus

Verse 4
Oh how I love you let me count the ways…
What? You think ‘cuz I like the butt I’m gay?!
You crazy, babe, you don’t know what you say
I guess I’m just a Pirate of the Hershey Highway

I’m just coo coo…for poo poo…

5:28 pm
So, some hemorrhoid turned the radio back on, but to neither “news” nor “shit”, at least not Christmas shit. It’s the local R&B station. I’m not writing to blast the Blacks or anything, that’s www.kkk.com/blasttheblacks . I’m writing because in the past half hour, forty-five minutes in which I’ve been forced to listen to WBCX I’ve figured out the mathematical formula to making successful R&B.
Now we all know that R&B stands for Rhythm (which this music has, but then again if you fart regularly enough, so do you) and Blues (there’s nothing “blue” about these artists as far as “sadness” goes because every one of these bastards make more money than God, who’s worth about 6.2 billion) but what we don’t know why these high school drug dealers/drop outs/deadbeat fathers/another stereotype make so much money from it. Well, because of the FORMULA.
{a + b + c = z}
Now “z” can be a few different things, but since this IS a mathematic formula, “a”, “b” and “c” must always be the same. Here we go:

a = Title of song, repeated over and over throughout duration of song in a breathy, sometimes harmonized voice.

b = Spoken/crooned/whined/moaned lyrics rife with very thinly veiled sexual terminology and utterances of incitation and/or approval such as “Woo!”, “Yeah!”, “Come on!”, “All right!” etc.

c = A slow, 4/4 beat, usually constructed on a child’s synthesizer (i.e. “Playskool’s My First Keyboard” or “The Keyboard for the Mentally Handicapped”)

Although there is the OPTION of adding elements to the formula, as long as your R&B song is comprised of “a”, ”b” and “c”, your result will be “z”.

As stated, “z” can equal different products; here are some of the most common results:
z = financial rewards (“bling-bling”), vaginal secretions from stupid women (“juicy hos”), plus others.

Just thought I’d share.

12.17.03
12:23 pm
There, no matter how boring you found this, I had to live it, so shut up and die.

Beck

I just wanted to take a moment to say just how amazing Beck is. Beck is, by far, one of the funkiest White men ever created. Midnite Vultures is the ass-shakin'-est album I own and Sea Change is one of the most chill, beautiful complex yet simplistic albums I own and they're both Beck, although aside from the vocals, you wouldn't be able to tell. He's just the shit. That's all I have to say. Yeah.

A note on the previous entry...

How's this for strange...I spell checked the entry before this one because I don't want the world to know that I can neither read nor write nor spell and during the course of the spell check, "Kaitlyn" came up, as did "hm" but "cum-butt" was apparently already in the computer's data base. I don't know what to infer except that maybe Bill Gates likes to cum-butt? Who knows. He's a freaky little schwab.

You're not dead yet...congratulations.

Birthdays come but once a year...actually, that would have been a lot funnier of I had said: Birthdays cum-butt once a year...and then have some pictures of people with party hats shooting man milk on people's asses...yeah...wait, what the fuck am I talking about sex for? This is about Kaitlyn...and her Birthday. As I said, Birthdays come but once a year and thank fuck for that. Kaitlyn has been "asking what we're doing on a certain day" for nigh on eleven months (I know, I've only known her for about three or so, but god damn if she doesn't make a day seem like a motherfucking week...) and the answer is JACK FUCKING SHIT! “Jack Fucking Shit” can also be pronounced: I've updated my web site with a special Birthday thing for you so stop bitching. It all depends on where you're from. So go and look at it. Feel special and remember...this is your present.

Meanwhile...

If you don't get this, don't feel bad...just feel left out. Like when you walk into a room and this person is right in the middle of a great story that could never be told again as great as it is being told right now. ..because that's exactly what this is...the greatest story ever told (no, not the fucking bible)...already in progress...
It was not cold at all. Three figures found themselves around a white Formica table. A strange man walked up to them, seemingly unaware of what had just happened. He asked them what they wanted, when he received no replies, he said he would be back in a few minutes. No one was the first to speak. Of the three, one was floating, deep in meditation, one was looking around intently with one finger in his ear and one was sniffing the new environs. All were puzzled, all were silent. Then, the floating one spoke,
“There is a disturbance in the Force.”
“No”, dissented the one with the finger in the ear, “It’s a computational error within the Matrix”.
The third dissented with confused grunts mostly then began muttering, “The ring…the Master’s ring….herm….herrrm…”
There was another silence, as palpable as any lack of sound can be, and then the source of the disruption that called them to this place seemed to throb again and all three of them froze, sensing it. The floating one ceased floating, the one with the finger/ear kinship broke the two apart and the sniffing one desisted sniffing. They all heard dark, bubbling laughter and this is what seemed to focus them all upon each other.
“GuiDiRico?” they all said.
Then again, slower, and singularly
“Guido?”
“Dirk?”
“Rico?”
They stared. Then they started. Then there were many hugs, quite a few slaps and an equal amount of tickles, despite the lack of Prince (they had all, on their separate paths, discovered and come to understand that even though Prince might not be playing or heard at a certain moment or at a certain location, he had at one point been played/heard at some time and at some location and therefore existed throughout all time and space from the Beginning of Everything to the End of Everything, meaning that there really was no such thing as a “lack of Prince”, so more correctly…) despite the lack of Prince not being played/heard at that particular moment and at that particular location, and once the hugs and slaps and tickles had ended, they began again with a feverish intensity only known to those with fevers well above 103 degrees (Celsius) and an intensity well above 3. Finally, the feverish intensity took some metaphorical Tylenol and they all stopped hugging and slapping and tickling…and began talking…to each other…
“Like the suit, Guido” intoned Rico.
“Thanks”, responded Guido, “I like the ceremonial robes.”
“Ah,” blushed Rico, “these old things?”
“Yes” said Guido.
“Oh” unblushed Rico. “Thank you.”
“And Dirk…” said Guido, turning to Dirk “…like the…armor…?”
“Hey, thanks! It’s Hobbit skin.” chirped Dirk.
“Killed them yourself?” asked Rico.
“No other way.” answered Dirk, smug and proud and covered in Hobbit skin.
“With the…uh...” Guido gestured at the huge axe that was resting next to Dirk.
“No other way.” Dirk repeated with smugness and pride and I’m-wearing-Hobbit-skin-itude.
“Speaking of axes,” segued Guido, “what is that thing, Rico?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked that Guido,” infomercialed Rico, “This here is a Light Saber.”
“Sweet,” screamed Dirk, “Where’d you steal it from?”
“Oh, I didn’t steal it…it’s mine.”
“Huh?” inquired Guido.
“Yup, it was given to me by my very own-
There was a loud burst of static and then the strange man (who turned out to be a strange waiter named RJ or something) appeared.
“Ready yet, fellas?”
Guido looked at the menu and then at RJ.
“None of this is real.”
“Uh…” said the waiter, “So you don’t want anything?”
“Not exactly…there isn’t anything.”
“Ok…how about you, Robe Man?”
“Excitement…adventure…a Jedi seeks not these things.” responded Rico calmly and then sat, silently smiling at RJ. RJ pretended not to see Rico and then turned to Dirk with his eyes running up and down the huge axe at Dirk’s side.
“Stop your eyes from doing that!” cried Dirk, “And bring me the skins of all your bean crocks”
“Yes sir!" wept RJ as he scampered into the kitchen.
They turned their attention back upon each other.
“So…where the hell have you been, Dirk? And where did you get that huge axe…is it a replica-“
They all stopped for a moment at the mention of the words “axe” and “replica” in the same sentence, lost in a memory that was bulbous, meloneous and good, all at the same time.
“No, this one’s real. I got it from the leader of the Southern Orc tribe. After that whole clone thing, I was pretty shaken up. I went traveling, looking for a green, glowing door and, sure enough, I found it. I only had two choices- go through and continue the adventure or don’t and don’t. I found myself in Middle Earth. I hung out at this bar and one night this little midget was talking smack about making fun of fat people. ‘They’re people too!’ and all that crap and then he started going into detail about how he and his fat wife have intercourse! I was sick and it was either throw up my grog that I had paid good money for or shut that bugger up…so I did.”
“Which one?” Guido asked.
“Both, actually. Then some greenish looking guy ambled up to me and started grunting and, since I was drunk I had no idea what he was saying, but next thing I know I’m in the Army…the Orc Army. One thing lead to another and eventually I was given this huge axe. How about you, Rico? You were saying something about your Light Saber.”
“Not really much to say. After the clone thing I wanted to find out more about clones so I went to NASA and asked them. They put me in this machine and, boom, I’m in this temple and there’s this shriveled puppet floating in front of me. He’s looking all expectant and so I ask him about clones. He started gurgling and then taught me the Way of the Jedi. After a while I became a Jedi Master and I was given this here Light Saber. Pretty sweet, huh? Reid would be jealous as all get out.”
“Hell yes!” sang Guido.
There were 85 high fives before the conversation continued.
“How about you, Guido? Tell us about the suit…and those bitchin’ shades.” implored Dirk.
“When my clone died in my arms…I was pretty fucked up by that. I started buying drugs from Derek and then, one night he and I went to this rave and this chick walks up to me and starts whispering in my ear, something about reality and bugs and Laurence Fishburn…and then, BAM! Her head explodes.”
“What?” whated Rico.
“Yup, pow. So I’m standing there, covered in this chick’s head and these bad ass Sam Jackson looking motherfos stride up and I say, that was phat. Do you guys know about the Fatty patrol? Because we do stuff like that but with harpoons and fat people and- then, the first guy cuts me off and they offer me a job as an Agent. I was pensive to say the least, but then they gave me my gun.”
Guido reaches into his suit jacket and produces a hand cannon about a foot long.
“Holy fuck!” explicated Dirk.
“The holiest,” replies Guido, grinning, “and after I saw that, not to mention this awesome suit and killer ear piece, I was sold.”
“Sounds like fun.” says Rico.
“But how did you get here?” asks Dirk. “How did any of us get here? I was about to slaughter these Madison trolls when I was just…here.”
“Yeah, I was dueling with Darth Bev when…yeah, I was just here.”
“Same with me…I was chasing down Heneo, the Hairy One when zap, here…wait” said Guido, “Where is here?”
An instant or two after Guido asked this, RJ appeared out of the kitchen. Guido, forgetting that RJ hadn’t been there an instant or two ago to hear the question pulled his hand cannon out of his jacket, pointed it at RJ and shrieked his question again. RJ filled his pants with someone else’s fecal matter and collapsed.
“Man, that is so inevitable,” said Guido, holstering his weapon of mass destruction.
“Wait, look! said Dirk, pointing.
The unconscious and shit stained waiter was wearing a paper hat that read “Steak ‘N’ Shake”.
“No way!” roflpuked Rico, “Steak ‘N’ Shake? Why the Hoth are we here?”
Before anyone could answer or ask why he would refer to Hoth so randomly, the dark, bubbling laughter came again.
“I feel it again…the disturbance in the Force…” said Rico.
“Yeah, and I’m picking up an error in the Matrix again.” added Guido.
“I’m sensing the Ring, man.” multiplied Dirk.
They went outside and all turned in the direction of a nearby housing development.
“Whatever it is, it’s definitely coming from there…” started Guido.
“but…wait…that’s…” he turned to Dirk, he was nodding.
“That’s Heathrow Woods…that’s where I used to live. But more importantly…” he looked at the others, “That’s’ where we found the Gates of Hell. I have a bad feeling…”
“Well, they are the Gates of Hell, Dirk, I mean it’s hard to get a good feeling about them, now isn’t it?”
“Damn it, Rico, I was being clichéd, do you mind?”
“Oh sorry,” sorrowed Rico, “It’s just that I get so lonely…”
There was a pause.
“What?” asked Guido, curiously.
“What?” said Rico, “It was a clichéd, funny thing to say.”
“Half right…” mumbled Dirk.
“What was that, Orc Boy?” growled Rico.
“Uh, nothing,“ hurried Dirk, “Hey, let’s make this a ‘to be continued’ point, what do you say? I mean, we’ve been reintroduced and this is a pretty good cliffhanger. Plus, it gives time for the writer to come up with what happens next.”
“Hey, I have a pretty looses idea about what’s going to happen next,” typed the Writer, “I only ever have a loose idea in these cases, but I am pretty hungry and the Simpsons are on pretty soon. I think I’ll stop down at the Deli and get a hero. So, yeah, good idea, Dirk.”
“Aw, my pleasure.” awed Dirk.
“Good.” typed the Writer.


TOBECONTINUED

P.S. Biggest downside to Live Journal...the inability to preview journal entries, fucker.

ahem...

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...THE CUNTS ARE GONE! THE CUNTS ARE GONE! THE MOTHERFUCKING CUNTS ARE MOTHERFUCKING GONE!!!!! Of course there shall be a beautiful party and there will be a quiet moment during which the lights shall be dimmed and everyone present shall recount their fondest memories of said Motherfucking Cunts. Possibly candlelit...? Everything is love.

Prepare yourselves...I have created....

Puppyhands
( or how could one so simple be misunderstood
by Guido Paparazzi


Every time he enters a room it glows with the heat of an oven filled with baking bread.
His smile is as bright and as volatile as a million exploding suns.
The light from his eyes pierces your soul and that of at least four people standing behind you.
His heart is a big as a country and could easily cause a giant to throttle if he tried to swallow it.
His presence makes peoples’ lungs and duodenums explode with sheer joy.
His books are full of paper, covered in words.
His shoes are full of feet, with toes.
His love melts butterflies.


All of these things are important and beautiful, like him.
All of these things are valueless and pock-marked.
Because of his hands.

Because of his hands which make infants giggle, toddlers cavort and all concurrent developmental stages gibber and become engorged.


He has Puppyhands.
And because of this he is exalted, reviled, vilified, scorned and magnificent.
His hands.
His Puppyhands.
His barking, drooling, nuzzling, urinating, defecating, loving Puppyhands.
The more he is loved.
The more he is unloved.
His hands smell of Puppies.
A silent tear spilled from his eye onto his furry, yipping, growling hands.

So it's bad, but not as bad as it could be...although it might be goodin a different way soon......

Well, Phil came up as planned and I poked his eyes the moment I saw him (as a sign of non-menace and as a calmative gesture). He laughed, I laughed, he bled, we drank grog. It was delightful. However…what was NOT delightful in any way was Onikage’s LACK of communication with me. I ordered him to come back for this meeting and he never showed up. I later found the ninja I sent to Onikage with the message DEAD, missing all his vital organs and stuffed with feces. Whether or not the feces belonged to Onikage…I cannot say. Luckily, Phil seemed to take this news well, almost too well…hmm. On a different page, Phil’s friend Denise the Butcher has come to live in the Ninja city of New York (yes, it’s the same as regular New York, but since I am head of the Tenchu ninja, I call it the Ninja city of New York). She is a very skilled killer, an expert in destroying a man’s spirit before his actual body, a true master when it comes to pain. Anyway, back to this Onikage debacle…I am investigating but I fear the worst….from the rumors and information my ninja have gathered…I think this ninja revolution is real and worst of all it seem as if Onikage, one of the most dangerous ninja in this world is leading them. In other worlds though…something good is about to happen and I will be sure to explain all about that soon…just keep your fingers crossed and kill a virgin for my good luck….

This could be a problem...

Recently my good friend Phil celebrated his Birthday. As a surprise present I sent down a few of my ninja to hang out with him and entertain him because, what's cooler than hanging out with ninjas? However, I just received news today that this group of ninja I sent tried to assassinate him! Of course Phil, being a very well-trained and dangerous swordsman was able to dispatch them quickly and I'm very glad about that, but the problem here is this direct violation of my orders. My Tenchu ninja only obey two people; myself, as their leader and my second in command, Onikage. Although Phil is an elite member of a very old and powerful pirate clan around the Silver Bluff/Santa Cruz area and although pirates and the Tenchu are mortal enemies, I consider Phil a very close friend and I would NEVER harm Phil or try to harm him in any way. That could start a full out pirate/ninja war and no one wants that. This disobedience and attack are just the symptoms of a larger malady I fear…what was the reason for it? Who ordered it? Since I wouldn’t do something like this, as I said, and Onikage is as loyal to me as all my ninja, then that means there is a random, radical element amongst my ninja ranks. Perhaps this is the start of a ninja rebellion? I shudder to think of the devastation that would cause. The Tenchu have existed for centuries…in the shadows. If there actually was something like that in the works and it came to full fruit…the world would be helpless. There would exist only two kinds of people, the dead and those who have yet to be mowed down by the blade of the Tenchu. Whatever the case, I need to get in touch with Onikage to find out what happened and as soon as possible because I’ve heard rumors that Phil is on his way here to see me…and he is NOT happy…

I am telling you all...
My face is getting thin and cracking a little even now.

Actual proof that God exists...

The druggie bitch has a urinary tract infection. I am now a true believer, someone say Hallelujah.

Fuck you, Internet.

Anyway, the "This one's for you, Megan" entry was supposed to have a shot of Megan at the bottom, but, surprise surfuckingprise, the Internet didn't do what I want so now I have two fucking copies of the same entry with no pictures. Although if you want to know who Megan is, she's on the left of the test picture and although I told you to ignore that entry, you have my permission FOR A FEW MINUTES to regard this entry so fucking enjoy it. Bastard Internet fuckers...

This one's for Megan...

I'd like to take a moment to not berate and bitch about the two human slugs that surround me almost constantly at my apartment and share with "all y'all" a few fond memories about someone who rocks very hard and has been doing so for about 4 years now (Note: There is a very real possibility that this special someone has been rocking consistently for more than 20 years, but since I have only been acquainted with said special someone for 4 years, I can only report upon what I know to be true. Thank you for your understanding and milk.)
This special someone goes by the name of Megan and, despite her geographical handicap (New Jersey ), she does indeed, as I stated before, rock and rock hard.
The first time I saw Megan she was slathering a large piece of muslin with primer (as she is want to do). A few minutes after being introduced to her, she got the aforementioned primer in her eye and had to run to the bathroom to wash it out. Although I had only actually spent a few minuets with her before the primer incident, I could tell that she rocked (I have that ability...with great power comes great responsibility...).
Ok, here's where it gets weird...the above account took place in November of 1999, between then and the early part of 2003 I have only mental snapshots of spending time with Megan. I remember that she and I had a callback together for a terrible student-written show called "The Wall" in which I would have been Megan abusive boyfriend. Fortunately, Megan was not cast as the object of my abuse because even acting like I was abusing a person like Megan would have been MASSIVELY damaging to my Karma Meter (incidentally, the actress who did get the part was very easy to abuse because of her personality and on the third and final night of the show she "convinced" me to hit her for real...the audience ate it up. Perhaps they wanted to hit her too? I guess we'll never know...No, wait. Yes, the audience did want to hit her too, I remember a few people telling me this afterwards. Never mind, mystery solved.). Another snapshot is of her and I (although I don't actually spending any time with her there) at the White Trash Paradise of a Six Flags Great Adventure buried deep in the heart of...JERSEY. Some crazy weird school trip. I remember my man Gizzy Cizzy taking pictures of families with mullets and F.B.D.(Full Body Denim...yes, it really happens), creepy.
Sadly, aside from those two (rather clear) memories of my encounters with Megan, all others are blurry...until the early part of my senior year of college.
Megan and I were both called back for one of the most wonderful shows I have ever had the privilege to be a part of (The Universal Language by David Ives) and one of the exercises was to play a game of Charades with the other person (this was mainly a two person show). I picked "Movie" as my category and "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" as my movie (because it's one of my favorites). Now, you can imagine that Fear and Loathing is NOT the easiest thing to just grab in a game of Charades... BUT Megan goes right ahead and gets it on the first guess. Why? Because she double-majored in Theatre and Rocking and minored in Charades? NO, because she remembered me blathering about F&L in a conversation we had had almost half a decade ago in our freshmen year. And how did I feel about this remembrance? Flattered? Yes. Amazed? Yes. Terrified? A little...but compelled. From that point, Megan and I (and our Prof at the time, Elizabeth) decided that we should do a scene from Universal Language. Long story short, we decided to do a scene from When Harry Met Sally...and it was awesome (that the shortest I have ever made something after saying "long story short").
Now, why did I take up time to explain to you all the Rock Machine that is Megan? Well, that's easy, because things that Rock are Awesome (which is Super Good) and since it's Good when Things are Good...it is therefore Good that Megan exists. So, yes. Also, I think some people might be getting tired of be destroying my roommates. No? Ok, we'll jump back on that Horse of Hatred, that Stallion of Slander, that Mare of Malice soon enough. But for today, I just wanted to take a moment to talk about someone who Rocks and is awesome and has made my life just that much better by simply being. So thanks Megan...you exist, you persist, you Rock.

Also...

These fucking cunts are using that fucking cutesy talking-to-doggie voice. No fucking jury would convict me...

Yo no quiero stupid models.

There is now a Chihuahua in my, already small apartment. Why? Well, one guess...because both cats died from malnutrition? Nope, they're both still here and sufficiently terrified of said Chihuahua. Because I finally snapped and killed the cats and this is the way the ditz twins are dealing with the grief? Nope, simple celled organisms such as moss, fungus and my roommates have neither the brain nor ability for emotional capacity. Then why, why is there a mother fucker Chihuahua in my, already small apartment? Well, I'll tell you why...because my stupid fucking roommates think that a DOG will be easier to take care of than TWO FUCKING CATS! And why am I not completely fine with the idea of sharing this already small apartment with two cats, two fucking morons AND a fucking Chihuahua? Quite simply because I've seen them mistreat, neglect and abuse their "precious little kitty wuckums" and can't wait 'til the first weekend these dumb cunts go away (Flouncy to fuck some Bolivian drug lord and his bastard children all over the country and the other to pine away in upstate New York or fucking Jersey about the bisexual mindfucker who used to fuck her silly and now wants to move on and how he's breaking her stupid fucking heart and not knowing it) and come back to find all three pets dead because...huh? What? We need to give these little hairy walking people food? And...what? Water? But I left an ashtray full of smoldering roaches for them to enjoy? How stupid can two cats and a Chihuahua get? Trust me, you filthy sluts, not nearly as stupid as you two.
Now you out there might be asking yourself, "Yo, Flouncy should be drawn and quartered...but why the hateration for the other one?" I'll tell ya...the reason I've come to hate this mopey druncunt (made that one myself) is because, besides the fact that she mopey 24 hours a day and drunk 7 nights a week (and was heard to say, IN EARNEST during her experimental 'week of sobriety' while smoking pot..."At least it's not alcohol!!") and promised to get professional help if her week without pissing it up didn't work (it didn't, she didn't)...she is a spineless jelly fish. Redundant? Yes. Clear how spineless she is? You betcha. You spend five minutes with this blade of grass and you can convince her, seriously CONVINCE her to believe ANYTHING. And since Flouncy is the stupid one and the other is the weak one...well I'm sure you can all see how bad of a combination weakness and stupidity is. I swear to Christ that I'm starting to understand why Hitler felt this "urge to purge" if you will. Maybe he roomed with a model and a weak-willed alcoholic and tried to start a culling of THEIR kind but then found that they had all died from natural selection so he was just going to maybe kill his roommates until one day, a Jewish art critic called him a fag and that set him off. I have a funny feeling though, that his model roommate asked her Jewish art critic friend to come over and take a look at her roommate's stuff...hence, it's the models' fault we had the Holocaust. Damn, yet another reason to hate this ball of hair and drugs and slurred speech.
And by the way, I do like the Chihuahua, but I don't like the idea that I will be the one responsible for it and that if I don't take care of the poor unprepared thing is going to die and that these dumb bitches won't clean it up because they're too busy smoking pot, snorting coke, fucking bisexuals, weeping, flouncing or just existing on that plane somewhere between the ashtrays that are scattered about my apartment and the dry shit on the ass of our new Chihuahua (named Karma).
Finally, I think they think the Chihuahua is already here to stay, so if any of you want a housetrained Chihuahua who actually doesn't yip and shake like an invalid, let me know so I can just give it to you one night when they're out getting pumped by scummy drug mules who need put their seed in something dirty.

Bad fucking day.

It's only 11:14 here and it's already turning out to be a shitty day. If you haven't heard, both Johnny Cash and John Ritter are dead. I don't really give a shit about John Ritter because he was a bad actor (except for moments in "IT"), but Johnny Fucking Cash? DEAD?! That's bullshit! He's immortal! Fuck that shit! This isn't what Fridays are about. The only good that can come of this is if my flouncy-ass dipstick roommate kills herself in grief...or by accidentally falling off the roof...after I push her.

Why can't this moment last forever...?

About two weeks ago, Flouncy McCunt left for some other country. She said she was returning last Thursday. When I got a call from my good roommate with the news that she wouldn't be returning 'til Sunday, it felt like my Birthday. And then, Sunday night when I got ANOTHER call letting me know that she'd be home on Thursday, I felt like Jesus (my Birthday and Christmas all at the same time) and now that it's Wednesday afternoon...I am in a definite funk at her (possible) arrival tomorrow. I suppose I could find out what flight she's on then keep calling bomb threats until she just gives up and stays wherever the fuck she is now. In her absence, the apartment has remained clean even after a 12 person party-type thing. Things have been rearranged and reorganized and, most importantly MAINTAINED...all just waiting for this dirty (in EVERY sense of the word) cunt to come back flouncing with coke and vapid stories about her and her vapid friends doing ALL SORTS of crazy drugs! Silly twat. She thinks that just because she survived cancer she can live out the rest of her days in a drug/booze/stupidity induced stupor. I know someone else who beat cancer and they aren't walking, talking barrels of toxic waste like this bitch wad. Is it because she's British? No, because I've never seen James Bond act this way. Jesus, didn't the British fucking INVENT decorum (the act of, not the word)?? If so, they should be informed just how stupid she is making that WHOLE ISLAND look. I recently had a dream where she was beautiful and completely unaddled by drugs or anything and I woke feeling sorry for her, but not any less hateful. Drugs don't approach people, people approach drugs. You don't just wake up a waste of skin and blood, it's a gradual process. As long as she doesn't talk to me ever again, I'll never mention her again. Fair enough? Good. Fucking limey cooze...

If ever there was cause to update my journal...

Wow! I have just got to tell everyone about this!!! I just got back from a trip to NEW JERSEY!!! There were rides and taffy and funnel cake and sand and LOTS f water...SEA WATER!!!!!AND IT WAS SUPER!!!!!........and that's it.....nothing else.......yup....nothing out of the ordinary else.........just as normal as normal can be.........yep..........uh........mm hmm........nothing else to be said...........uh........ah............aaaaarrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!! THE MODEL JUST BURST IN AND TOLD ME SHE JUST GAVE HER FIRST BLOW JOB IN A TAXI CAB AND THAT SHE CAME HOME A FEW DAYS AGO TO MY OTHER ROOMMATE AND TWO FRIENDS OF HERS NAKED AND HAVING A THREESOME!!!!!!.......but that's it....nothing else. Ahem. Uh, th-thank you.

I ate the whole bag.

Yesterday a fifty-two pound bag of rye berries (the key ingredient for shrooms) was accidentally delivered to my apartment and, since it was signed for by one of my roommate (because she didn't read the fucking CONTRACTUAL AGREEMENT!!!!) it is now ours. What the bloody fuck is going on? I'm at a loss. I'm ordering some crab rangoon. If any of you haven't had this, find a chinese place near you that has them and try some, they're awesome. Mmmm...

ahem...

flounce1 (flouns)
n.
A strip of decorative, usually gathered or pleated material attached by one edge, as on a garment or curtain.

tr.v. flounced, flounc·ing, flounc·es
To trim with a strip or strips of gathered or pleated material.

[Alteration of frounce, from Middle English, pleat, from Old French fronce, of Germanic origin. See sker-2 in Indo-European Roots.]

flounce2 (flouns)
intr.v. flounced, flounc·ing, flounc·es

1. To move in a lively or bouncy manner: The children flounced around the room in their costumes.
2. To move with exaggerated or affected motions: flounced petulantly out of the house.
3. To move clumsily; flounder.

Okay, I wanted to start with a definition. The key to this entry is the word and action "flounce" (specifically the third meaning of the second definition, in fact disregard the strip of fabric thing). As I mentioned before, I think, I am now living in an apartment on the
Upper East Side of Manhattan. I am living with two girls, one of which is the subject and reason of this update.
Her name is Flouncy the Tart, let's say. She is/was an actress/model. At this moment, she is flouncing around the apartment deciding what clothes she's going to bring to Neverland. For those that don't know, Neverland is Mr. Michael Jackson's private home/amusement park. How she got the invite? Well, she says that some guy who got the invitation just couldn't go and gave it to her. My thoughts on how she got it? She went to bed with this guy and she took so much of his stain into her system (mouth, vagina and anus) that he felt she had earned a door prize. But I'm looking at the small picture, let me let you in on the big picture of why I am slandering this actress/model/anal feind...(here comes the laundry list) She's never here, when she is she's complaining that the place is a mess because it hasn't been cleaned since the last time she made the fucking mess, she owns a cat who is never fed by her because she's never here, she brags about things that just aren't true, she's a starfucker, literally, she does massive amounts of drugs (coke, E, pot, who KNOWS what the fuck else), she's an idiot (although I can blame that on breeding), she's British, she's messy, she's dirty, she's a whore, she is utterly helpless, she slurs her words terribly (making the whole British race sillier in my mind), she bursts into the apartment (once every week) to make a mess, change her clothes, do a line, SPEAK IN BABY TALK TO HER FUCKING CAT ALTHOUGH NOT GIVING IT ANY FOOD OR ATTENTION, FLOUNCE around muttering that her life is SOOOOO tough because she can't find her other $900 pair of shoes because the first $900 pair of shoes is TOO last week to be seen where she's going (which is usually to bed with someone famous so she can feel important), she has over her friends (as vacant as the library in her hometown) and they ALL flounce around the fucking place making a mess, doing drugs, talking on their cell phones, LEAVING MY GODDAMN DVD'S ALL OVER THE PLACE, she finishes food that isn't hers, she doesn't buy food that anyone else wants then offers it freely, she uses a WHOLE ROLL OF TOILET PAPER every time she goes into the bathroom, SHE ATE MY SALT AND VINEGAR PRINGLES AND DRANK MY FUCKING VANILLA COKE! and finally...she shaved her pubic hair OVER THE BATHROOM SINK, DIDN'T CLEAN IT OUT, THEN FUCKING LEFT HER RAZOR IN THE CUP I KEEP MY TOOTHBRUSH IN!!!!!!! One of the very worst things she has ever done, however was convince me that she doesn't like this lifestyle she's leading. Little did I know that as she was saying this, she was ready to head out for a week or two of casual sex with dirty stars, drug use and flouncing. One of these days, she's going to be in company worse than usual and then she's probably going to be raped or killed or just allowed to flounce in front of a bullet train on a weekend jaunt to Tokyo or something. The novelty of living with an actress/model has worn off. If anyone would be interested in killing her and moving in, just let me know. Rent's good.

Guess who's not dead...

Forget it, it's me, I'm not dead. I'm here. Where is here you might ask? My new apartment on the upper east side. I'm all in except for a few little details. I'm living with two random chicks; Melissa (late 20's, 6'1, British, model, was in James Bond's Goldeneye) and Andrea (early 20's, less than 6'1, Jerseian, was in a Girls Gone Wild DVD Mardi Gras 2001). Yes, I know what you're thinking:...Actually, no I don't, I really have nothing. Nevermind. Sorry to be so presumptuous. God, I'm such an asshole. Eh. Uh. Done. I am a human head.

I'll go get a towel...

And why am I going to get a towel? Because you just saw my picture and CAME LIKE TEENAGERS AT AN ORGY! And nw that I have a picture up, I suppose I should update my journal, eh? Fine.-->(Delivered as Paul Rudd in Wet Hot American Summer)
I am in New York City at this moment. As a Theatre major who intends to become a professional actor, I need to be in New York. At this moment, I have no job and no apartment here in the city and come May 18th (one fucking day after my graduation) my school kicks me out of my apartment here. I also still have classes and can't start a brand new job until I have nothing to do...on the 18th of May for instance. Come May 18th, I will have to return to the place that I now call home...Florida. Florida = suicide. Both for me and my career. So, that's what's been in my head recently. Thanks for asking. Peace out. Now change your pants, your fluids are getting dry and crusty.

What's Your Anti-Drug?

Putting my testicles on the heads on midgets is my anti-drug. What's your Anti-Drug?

For Jenna

I want to take a moment to recognize my love for Jenna. I think that she is the only person who checks my web site on a regular basis AND really enjoys it AND asks me when it's going to be updated whenever we talk.
I met her in high school along with my best friends, Phil and Will. I think one of, if not the first night I met her, the 5 of us (Will, Sunir--a dark force in this universe), Jenna, Angie--a magnificent person in her own right and myself) went out to a Cuban restaurant named Don Pepe's where I talked with Jenna and Angie and learned that they both enjoyed Stephen King and watching X-Files together because they thought David Duchovny was hot. Aside from the "thinking he's hot" part, I was on the same track as them. Another early memory of Jenna involves the first time I went to Will's old house where Jenna insisted that we listen to a great song that just happened to be "Birdhouse in Your Soul" by They Might Be Giants. This was th first time I had ever heard this song and I was enamored. Then there was the night we all went to our friend Alison's house and watched a really terrible soft core on Showtime. Then there was the last time I ever saw Jenna back in the 1900's. It was the night before she would leave Florida and go to Washington University in the state of the same name. We all spent that night at her house looking at pictures and just hanging out as one does before one will leave for a very long time. And at the end of that night, Jenna gave me her copy of "Reznor Sharp" (her bootleg of Nine Inch Nails at Woodstock '94). Then we all hugged and I went home. That was in August of 1998. I still talk to Jenna on-line and such, but I haven't seen her almost five years. However, the memory remains.
Jenna used to wear this very distinct scent whose name escapes me and a friend of mine here in NYC (Sarah) has recently started wearing it, which always reminds me of Jenna and all the wonderful fun we had over the two or three years we got to know one another before she had to go.
I guess what I'm saying is that I'll always remember you and hold you in my heart and you're not getting your CD back. I look forward to seeing you again at some point, hopefully in New York since she hates Florida about as much as myself. This one's for you Jenna. Rock on.

Shakespeare is a fake.

Nothing. Just "Shakespeare is a fake." And a whore. Shakespeare is a fake and a whore.

These rats.

I have these big, black rats in my head right now. Their feet and snouts are made of splintered glass and they've mistaken the various areas of my brain as rat food. They've been scurrying and stabbing around in my head for a few days now, carving bloody channels in the soft, gray substance between my ears. I'm afraid to go to a doctor because, if you were a doctor and I walked in and said, Hey, doc, what's going on. I got these rats..."? Needless to say the pain caused by these rats makes it hard to live. Yesterday I bent over to pick something up and all the rats pulled out switchblades and started running up the sides of my skull, so I left the thing on the floor where I dropped it. If I really need to get it, I'll pick it up with my feet. Tylenol, which usually does the trick is doing no such trick this time. Quite frankly, I'm in hell. Pretty soon these rats are going to start gnawing at the backs of my eyeballs and I have class in 13 minuets. Fuck.

Malcontent anyone?

So it appears at this time I don't like more things/people/places than I do like. If that doesn't change, it's your fault.

People and Places and Things I Don't Like (in NO order whatsoever)

From A Buick 8 (I love Stephen King's books, but this one just sucked ass cock), this apocalyptic pall that's fallen over the world (fuck Iraq, fuck war, let's go get pizza), censorship (I had a great joke in my most recent character bio and thanks to CENSORSHIP no one will know just how clever and disdainful I was about Trojan Women's director), wastes of time (I mean, I only have a few years left, I don't want to spend them on line at the Post Office or waiting for a fat person to order the most fattening thing on the menu at some fast food joint), low-hanging things (BECAUSE I BANG MY FUCKING HEAD ON THEM!), people who get angry at my height (Wow. Go fuck yourselves. Jealous ass pug-fuglies), not having money to buy cool shit (because life is less cool without cool shit), not having a job (because without a job, I can't get money for cool shit...duh), being a lazy fuck (because...eh), Fred Durst and all the musical atrocities he has helped to create (BURN IN HELL YOU PUNK ASS BITCH MOTHERFUCKER! If I had the ability to kill one person throughout history, it would be this spot of cock grease. Never before have people SERIOUSLY worshipped such a talentless dick cheese.), the people that SERIOUSLY worship Fred Durst (What's worse than being Hitler? Being a Nazi.), music in general today (every time I turn on the radio I want to stick infected penises in my ears so I won't have to endure the shit flying over the airwaves. Yes, I said it, I'd rather have diseased semen in my ears than listen to the radio), my school's cafeteria (since when is a sub-standard chicken wrap $7? You money-grubbing bastards.), the Olsen twins (their feces is worth than my life...seriously), consequences and laws (if there were neither, we could all be who we really are underneath the social constraints and trappings that TV and school and our churches and our parents have buried us. The REAL you is a terrible person, think about it...), people who use drugs and alcohol as excuses for idiotic behavior (if you're old enough to drink or old enough to score off some greasy burn out dealer then you're fucking old enough to take responsibility for your actions, fuckhead.), these reality shows-- American Idol, Married By America, the numerous dating shows (I would gladly kill each and every asshole participating on these shows. These GODDAMN divas in the making on American Idol, these poor, desperate morons on Married by America and each and every one of the sluts-- male and female--dead in a heartbeat and I wouldn't even TRY to give a shit. Oh and lest I forget, Man vs. Beast. A Japanese man versus a bear in a hot dog eating contest? Why don't terrorists ever attack these fucks? The state of television today is just like the radio except for the Simpsons.), itchy balls (no way to do THAT politely)

People and Places and Things I Like (in NO order whatsoever)

Prince (he's lovesexy), They Might Be Giants (they make me feel smarter than a lot of people), being damn tall (aside from the occasional blows to the head provided by low-hanging things, it's awesome. I can intimidate 90% of the world- the other 9% are big, black men and then there's that one percent consisting of random white people that I cannot intimidate/ intimidate me, these people include BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO: Christopher Walken, Willem DaFoe, John Malkovich, Crispin Hellion Glover and a few others), pizza (it's bread, cheese and tomato sauce, but how awesome is it?), Christina (cause she just rubbed my head and made my leg twitch), Resident Evil/Silent Hill type video games (because it's so hard to be frightened in life without worrying about real bodily harm), acting (because I bore myself sometimes), Nine Inch Nails (because they make music today suck in comparison), Marilyn Manson (because people really think he's the anti-christ), ejaculation (such a release), James Bond (because you know that by the end of the movie he will have had sex with AT LEAST three different women), Cake (their lead singer seems to really loathe all their fans, but his fans still exist...do we hate ourselves or what?), Depeche Mode on heroin (Songs of Faith and Devotion is an amazing album...thanks to Dave Gahan was chasing the dragon), gay priests (you gotta love the paradox they embody), the G.I. Joe psa's over at Lumpen.com (very seldom do I cry with laughter), New York City (especially in juxtaposition with, oh...I don't know...Longwood, Florida), Moxy Fruvous (for having THE DORKIEST FANS I HAVE EVER SEEN. These fucking Fruheads must NEVER get ass unless they rely on their respective household pets), The Simpsons (because it's all that is good and right in the world), large, open-ended lists that can be continued whenever...(because...well...)

Oh yeah baby, sex me up

There we go. My journal no longer looks like something the fucking Olsen twins would write their secret crushes in...
"Dear Diary, Today Comet licked us and it made us feel weird...but good...Like when Uncle Jesse does it...or Dave...or Daddy...or Cousin Balki...or Steve Urkel...or the rest of the TGIF Family...please help us, we're constantly being molested by older, untalented actors....someone kill us."

That's fucking talent...

Wow, my girlfriend is really fucking talented. Let's see...what can I do...uh...well...I can't find an apartment in the city...I can't find a job that I want to do AND that will have me...uh....I...can...bore people with my journal? And...uh...hm. Oh wait! I know! I CAN SUCK MY OWN DICK! HA! TAKE THAT, ROSS PEROT!

WHAT THE SHIT

All right. This is the LAST first entry I am making. My original entry (I Have A Journal) WAS deleted, but then apparently posted. I commented on the fact that it was deleted in the third entry (third in position, not in chronological order) and then I saw that the original first entry WAS NOT deleted so I made a third comment (which appears second for some fucking stupid reason I can never begin to comprehend) on that fact. There. So this is it. I will NEVER shop at this store again. But still, FUCK THE PO-LEESE!

What a terrible foot to get off on

Ok...this is messing with my head. Although the first entry (I Have A Journal) WAS deleted...I checked my Journal (which looks very 8th grade chic...) and it appeared to NOT have been deleted. Uh...well...FUCK THE PO-LEESE!

What a terrible foot to get off on

FUCK YOU INTERNET! I had my first fucking entry all typed up and ready to rock but the WHORES that control this fascist regime fucked it completely up. Well, if I never post again, it'll be because of you, you slut bags!

I have a journal

Event? What does that mean? Am I supposed to have a reason for writing this? Well EAT ME! You can't make me have a reason for ANYTHING! Ha. Sucka. Okay...so this will probably go the way of my fucking web site that get approximately 4 hits per ever so why am I bothering? Oh yes, because it sounded really cool at the time. Meh. I suppose I don't really need a journal for purgative purposes since anything I need to talk about I talk to friends and anything I wouldn't tell my close friends I am certainly not going to put on the Internet. Granted, the concept of the Internet is wonderful: This sea of anonimity that one can just cast off their personal and emotional falderal into, but, come on, we've all seen the Matrix. God I'm even boring myself.