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.