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Welcome to the Random Thoughts Page. Too short for rants, too stupid to be left unsaid. Newer thoughts will be at the top of the page, so you don't have to waste any valuable seconds scrolling to the bottom. Also, I'm dating the new entries for the fuck of it. If it doesn't have a date, then it was written for the old site somewhere between '98 and '00.
9/07/05 - The Times Have Changed
A coworker sent this comic book cover around the office today. It is hilarious. There is so much going on in this picture, I figured I'd talk about it. First, the obvious: it's called GAY. All caps. That, right there, is priceless. Granted, this is a 1949 comic book, and back in 1949, "gay" meant happy instead of "puts things in ass." However, I think it's funny that they still made the angry guy's word bubble pink even though this is Happy Comics. Why didn't they make it white like usual? Maybe it is because times were really different in 1949. Or maybe because even back then playing Hard to Get was really fucking gay. I'll leave that one up to you to figure out. What kind of crazy fucking stalker is this kid (who I will now refer to as Dingus since I don't know his name)? I mean Dingus must hide naked in her closet every night, waiting for her to fall asleep so he can take pictures of her while his balls are in her mouth. He probably also send her dead cats and half-eaten chocolates as gifts, along with a card that says "MILLIE YOU WILL BE MINE" scrawled in his own blood and semen. I can't think of any other reason she'd need a moat, barbed wire, and a rabid fucking dog to keep this creepy little bastard away. Or maybe he's just that much of a tool that she wants him to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the he will never have any gay times with her. Look how he's dressed. I know this comic came out in the forties, but I still think the only people who dressed like that back then were destined for a life of pulling things out of their noses and then scientifically categorizing them in order of nastiness. And Dingus is a total spaz too. He's flipping out like a drunken gold miner. Give him some patched overalls, a beard, and a floppy hat and you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He's either a claim jumper disguised as Archie or he's dancing the worst fucking jig in history. What is Millie reading? Maybe a book called "So They Haven't Invented Restraining Orders Yet..." Maybe she's reading the previous issue of GAY, #35, to find out why she's sitting in that chair. And why is she dressed like a tight-assed stenographer? I love the shoulder pads, too. They should bring those back again like someone tried to do in the 80's. Because, you know, women are really hot when they look like robots. And Millie is a terrible fucking name. Tessie and Nellie aren't much better. I know it's GAY Comics, but come one. It's 1949, they should have named them Agnes, Esther, and Gertrude. I might believe that. I love how Dingus screams, "Look, Millie, playing 'Hard to Get' is okay... but you're overdoing it! " (The original quote had the words, "you fucking bitch" tacked on at the end, but the censors wouldn't go for it; it wasn't gay enough) I'm going to take a stab in the dark here and say that she isn't playing hard to get. Hard to get is annoying and playful, not malicious and life-threatening. Millie is really playing "I want you to die, you creepy motherfucker." I didn't read the whole How to Play 'Hard to Get' Handbook, but I checked the index for "rabid dog" and "barbed wire;" they weren't in there. It's safe to say the only thing she wants to do with Dingus' genitals is feed them to her angry mutt. Advice for Dingus: Ditch the Conan O'Brian hairdo. Also, stop dressing like a senial Vaudeville performer. No amount of slapstick, piano, and hokey comedy routines about riding the trolley for a nickle are going to get you laid, even in 1949. Think about it, chief; it was after World War II. The only guys getting any action were the ones that spent three years shooting and then eating Germans. I don't even know what kind of act you threw together there, but it will never stand up to having a metal plate in your head from where some Nazi shot you in the heat of battle right before you tore his face off. I wonder why Marvel discontinued GAY Comics. I'm sure they'd be a big hit with the kids nowadays.
6/27/05 - Wedding Season People like to get married in the summer. This is great, because the only time I love to wear a suit is when it's 95 degrees and humid as fuck outside. Now, I'm a big fan of weddings in general, mostly because the words "open bar" send me into an orgasmic seizure, and there's always at least one drunken uncle running around pantsless screaming the words to the Electric slide while burying his face into a bridesmaid's cleavage to keep me entertained (which is also twice as great because while this is going on, no one notices that I'm double-fisting Jack and cokes and trying not to fall over every time I get up to go back to the bar). There are downsides to weddings, though, apart from the fact that wearing a suit in the summer brings me very close to melting and shaves roughly 5 more years off my life. First off is the music. You hear the same songs at just about every wedding: I Will Survive, all four versions of The Electric Slide, that Hot Hot Hot song by Buster Poindexter, Staying Alive, Play That Funky Music, etc., and the evening always ends with YMCA to let everyone know it's time to get the fuck out. They also play a lot of shitty love songs that all blend together in my mind so the only one I can think of right now is Wind Beneath My Wings, and as much as I love the movie Beaches and as hot as Bette Midler is, I don't need to hear that song at a wedding, and not just because it makes me cry. Another downside is being stuck at a table with people you've never met before but will undoubtedly hate with every fiber of your being by the end of the night. Yesterday I went to my first Jewish Wedding, which was also the first Judaism-related event I have ever been to. I've never been to a Barmitzva (I'm pretty sure I spelled that wrong) or anything like that, and all I really know about it is that it's a ceremony where a 13-year-old Jewish boy gets circumcised by a hooker right after he covers her in gefilte fish and sacrifices a pig to send the message that kosher is the way to go. A Batmitzva (yeah, spelled wrong I'm sure) is the same thing, only it's for a girl and the hooker is replaced with Batman. So going to a Jewish wedding was a bit of a learning experience for me since every other wedding I've been to has been Catholic except for the one that was out in the woods where everyone got naked and there was some crazy lady rocking out on a Pan flute the entire time with some guy in a dress talked about the goddess blessing unions and shit. Something I learned: Jewish wedding ceremonies are as boring as Catholic wedding ceremonies. One difference is that songs during a Jewish wedding are fucking awesome because it sounds like the singer's choking and they do everything under a little tent. Organ players, however, are equally rhythmless and tone-deaf for both (not that I'm expecting good music or anything, but I figure at least one member of the congregation probably knows how to tap their feet to a steady beat). The other difference is that apparently Jewish people think it's a sin to have air conditioning in their synagogues. I think that because it was seriously 900 degrees in there and in the reception hall. So Jewish weddings and Catholic weddings are basically the same, except what I've mentioned already and instead of having snack time I had to wear a little beanie hat that fell off my head every time I dozed off from a combination of boredom and heat stroke. At the reception, there was a band. It's been a while since I was at a wedding where they had a band instead of a DJ. At first, I thought it would be kind of cool, or at least different. Well, the only real difference is that instead of hearing Gloria Gaynor sing I Will Survive, I heard a portly woman with bad hair singing it while some guy with a fading glory pony tail made Carribean sounds with his keyboard for some reason. They played all the usual inoffensive watered-down crap you hear at every other wedding except for one song; they did not play The Electric Slide. And I don't mean "they didn't play all four versions of it," I mean they didn't play it once. Not that I was complaining, but some asshole did and requested that the band (which was gayly called Monte Carlo) play it. They didn't know how to play it. Again, not that I was complaining. All I want to know is how it's fucking even remotely possible to be a wedding band and not know how to play The Electric Slide. You can even fake it if you're far enough into the wedding everyone's too drunk to tell the difference. I don't know how a band is picked for a wedding, but I had assumed that "Do you know how to play The Electric Slide?" would be the first question during the interview. Oh well. This is also the first wedding I was ever at where my table wasn't 8 miles away from the middle of the room where the bride and groom are. They didn't have a bridal party table. Instead the couple got their own little table (called a "Sweatheart Table" - lame) and all the bridesmaids and groomsmen got to sit with their dates, which was great for me because I knew no one there. My girlfriend was the maid of honor, so I got to sit at the bridesmaids' table (it also meant we were the last ones to leave besides the bride and her parents). At some point towards the end of the night I got stuck to talking with the best man. I don't deal well with people I don't know, and whenever I'm in a conversation with some random person I don't particularly want to talk to it follows this pattern:
Weddings are chock full of these little awkward conversations. So somehow I'm at the table alone with the best man. He asked me how I liked the service, which I thought was kind of a weird question since I assumed he meant the religious aspects of it, and I said it was the first one I've ever been to and couldn't compare it to anything. Then he started going off about how he once went to an Irish Catholic wedding and there was a guy playing bagpipes the whole time so he assumed it was normal. Now, I have been to one wedding a long time ago where there was a guy playing the bagpipes (and I'm pretty sure it was a drunken uncle and not someone paid to do so), but I'm Irish and raised Catholic, and I've been to a lot of weddings. I told him this, he probably assumed I was lying in order to hide the mysterious secrets of the Irish Catholic wedding tradition from the Jews, and I walked away to try to dance (I wasn't wasted, but I was drunk enough to pretend I knew how to dance and not care if my fly was down - which it was but that's not the point). That's right, it was an awkward enough conversation where dancing was a welcome alternative. Other people at the table weren't much better. One bridesmaid was nice enough and didn't make me want to pour the water from the centerpiece over her head, but her husband looked exactly like Donkey Lips from Salute Your Shorts, so I knocked about ten points off her coolness rating. I gave her husband an extra 4,000 points though because Donkey Lips fucking rules. Then there was a girl without a date (who was kind of attractive - or at least attractive enough to easily be able to get someone to go with her) who did nothing but talk about how she's on Atkin's diet and lost 40 pounds and is still on the diet because if she eats one piece of bread she'll balloon up before our eyes. I was expecting her to break out a briefcase and start selling Atkin's diet books at the table. Then another bridesmaid was there with her boyfriend. She was annoying and one of her eyes was about twice as big as the other, but he looked exactly like some kid I went to high school with, and I kept calling him "Firely" (that was the guy's name that I went to high school with). I think he got insulted, but whatever. It's not like he knows my name. Yet. Then, there was the fourth bridesmaid; the bridesmaid that was still fucking pissed she wasn't the maid of honor. She was there with her fiancee, and god damn did they fucking deserve each other. They were so sickeningly all over each other and socially inept that I can't believe they resisted the temptation to call each other "Pookie" or "Shmoopie." She didn't say one word to me all night. Not that I was complaining. But after hearing horror stories about this bitch I was waiting all night for her to say something ignorant to me or my girlfriend just so I could start making fun of her and not feel bad for causing trouble. This was a big girl, and it would've taken only one cheeseburger-related comment to shut her up for the rest of the night. Oh well. I did, however, get to see her and her fiancee hold hands all night, even when eating and taking pictures, as well as giving each other cute little kisses all night, and that was fucking great. Well, either kisses or they were licked gravy off of each other's faces, one or the other. One part of a wedding that's great for comedy: the speeches and toasts. I love listening to toasts at a wedding, and I got a front-row seat this time since my table wasn't somewhere in the back of the kitchen. I'm not talking about the best man's speech; those are typically filled with bad, over-thought-out jokes that receive only pity laughter and usually amount to "when I met your new wife, I wanted to fuck her so hard she'd be in a wheelchair for a week. But she's yours and I fucking hate you for it. I hope you die, you woman-stealer." Ok, only some of them are like that. But there's always one toast you can definitely count on: the drunken relative toast. This is always either one of the fathers or an uncle. The father of the groom last night did a toast about his family's immigration history. None of it had anything to do with his son's wedding or any wedding in general. All I got from it is that I should move to America because Lithuania (or where ever he said - I stopped paying attention) sucks. Last week I was at a wedding, however, and someone's uncle was babbling into the microphone about god fucking knows what. He was rambling on and on about how "the two turned into four" and about the last time he fired a rifle. And it was fucking hilarious. And I'm sure it would've gone on another 20 minutes had he not been interrupted by the glass-clinkers. And that brings me to the next thing I hate about weddings. You all know who the glass-clinkers are, but in case you've never been to a wedding and are reading this in a hut in Zaire right now, the glass-clinkers are the people that constantly bang their silverware into their plates and glasses to get the bride and groom to kiss. More often than not, these people are all grouped together in the same table well beforehand. Now I could see having an obnoxious round of glass-clinking break out once, maybe twice during a wedding just so some people can get it out of their systems. Instead of getting it over with, they treat glass-clinking like they're all fucked up on heroin, and each round of glass-clinking makes them even hungrier for more of it. By the end of the wedding not even five minutes can go by without these people banging away on their glasses, whooping and hollering the entire time, forcing the bride and groom to kiss so much that they're starting to swallow each other's souls like the little troll thing in Cat's Eye. People, enough with the fucking glass clinking. What do you really get out of watching other people kiss? Does it fill some kind of hole in your own life when other people suck face in front of you, letting you vicariously live through them because no one would kiss you even if it was a well-documented fact that that doing so would make a wish-granting genie fly out of your ass and one of the wishes could even be making that person forget they kissed you? Seriously, knock that shit off. It's really bad by the end of the night when the glass-clinkers are drunk and have no self control so they start smashing their glasses in an extremely desperate attempt and forcing two people to hook up. And do you know the worst part about the glass-clinkers? THEY'RE ALWAYS SITTING ONE FUCKING TABLE AWAY FROM ME. STOP THAT SHIT, IT'S DRIVING EVERYBODY NUTS. So, if and when I get married, I'm taking a huge shit on wedding traditions and starting my own. I already have a list of 13 guidelines I hope - fuck that, demand - for my own wedding.
I think everyone can agree that if my wedding goes as planned, it will be the best wedding in the history of weddings. All weddings after mine will be a pathetic attempt at recreating the sheer amount of awesome the was my wedding. But until I get married and raise the bar, do the world a favor: don't encourage the Electric Slide by dancing to it, and if you clink your glass more than once (which is arguably too much, but I'll give you social retards one), you're a fucking asshole.
6/21/05 - The One Year Anniversary and Forbidden Dance Showdown Explosion! Yes, that's right. I've been writing stupid articles and whatnot on this site for one year today. A lot has changed in my life, and by "a lot" I mean "not much of anything." Still, let's look back in what has happened to me in the last year.
I have big plans for the future. Big, big plans. I am going to force myself to watch more bad horror movies and then write about them. I am going to do a real one-year anniversary update sometime this week. I am going to build a domed pleasure paradise in the Philadelphia area, complete with hookers and crack-filled vending machines that take wishes instead of coins, and this domed wonderland will also serve as a fortress to defend against the robot menace and Tina Turner. The Pleasure Dome will kick the Thunderdome's ass.
6/15/05 - That's What Coffee and Diapers Are For Today, a guy I work with left early because he was tired from being up all night and had to poop. I didn't know that was a valid excuse for leaving work early. That's just a little ridiculous. Every work day I'm exhausted when I wake up and as soon as I walk into the office I make a bee-line for the bathroom. I almost always take a shit at work (sometimes a second one after lunch), and some days I'm even considerate enough to not smear my feces all over the walls of the stall. Usually, I spell out vague warnings in backwards letters like "BEWARE THE POOP BANDIT!!! HE STRIKES AT DAWN!!!" after I mold my feces into little race cars, but I'm getting off topic. If I got to leave work every time I was tired and had to shit, I'd show up about once every three years. "Hey, it's Greg. Yeah, I had another night of broken sleep and my bowels are grumbling, so I can't come in. What? Well, I'll try and work from home as long as it doesn't interfere with my toilet time, or as I like to call it, the best part of my day." I sleep about three to six hours a night, usually waking up at least once in the middle, and I still somehow make it in to work. When I wake up way too early with sadistic midgets jack-hammering my brain and shining spotlights of pain in my eyes after a long night of binge-drinking and kicking old people, I still come to work. Do you know why? Because it's my own fucking fault. Granted, random insomnia is a little different, but that's what coffee's for. And, last I checked, there are several toilets in the building for your colon's pleasure. I guess I'm just jealous I didn't think of it first, because I really like working half days. Or spending an entire Wednesday sitting in my room playing video games and calling random people out of the phone book to sell them products that don't exist (like an athlete's foot-powered foot massager) all day. And that, my friends, is the secret to a happy life.
6/9/05 - A Possible New Responsibility at Work I can't go into detail about my job for obvious confidentiality reasons, so I'll just say that I work at a software development place that does work for digital cable and video on demand. I basically test stuff, which usually amounts to watching TV and ordering movies to make sure nothing explodes if you want to simplify it in terms that even your retarded children can wrap their oversized heads around. Our customers are mainly cable companies across North America (at least that's pretty much what I deal with). One of the cable companies in the country is going to start adding adult films to their video on demand library. There have been a few discussions off an on about this, but nothing too serious. About five minutes ago, I was told that it will almost definitely be my responsibility to make sure this stuff works. What does that mean? It means that at some point this summer it will be my ongoing job to watch porn all day. Let me repeat that: I will be getting paid to watch porn. That is fucking awesome. This means a few things:
There are going to be trade offs, sure. For one, I may get really sick of watching porn (hey, it's possible). Also, people at work will give me dirty looks (more of them anyway), people will talk shit, and every time I'm in the windowless room I'll be watching porn in, they will accuse me of masturbating (and they'll only be right like 75% of the time). They will say things to me like:
But the main thing people will say to me is, "Huh huh huh! Greg's looking at porn! How do you like watching porn, porn-head! Huh huh huh!" You might think I'm making that up because it sounds really fucking stupid, but I'm just going to remind you that I work with a bunch of software engineers that think Dilbert is fucking hilarious. People say you only get Dilbert if you work in an office. Hey, I work in an office, too. It's not funny. I get it, they give each other memos and the manager is retarded and unreasonable, kind of like real life. That doesn't make it funny. It's like writing a comic strip about the DMV. Yeah, the people that work there are inept retards that don't speak english and can only see out of one eye and the lines are really long, but no one's going to read about standing in line every day. All it does is make you say, "Just like at the DMV!! I love this comic strip! Especially the one about the girl that can't parallel park!" So anyone who thinks Dilbert is the epitome of funny is pretty much on par with people that think anti-smoking commercials are a sure-fire way to get people to stop smoking. Whatever. But getting paid to watch porn is great. And if nothing else, at least I'll finally be able to answer the question, "How much porn is too much?"
6/1/05 - Forget-Me-Not Panties: Stalking Made Easier!
The best part of the website by far is the testimonial section. First of all, there are only two testimonials, but I'm pretty sure that's still 100% of their customers giving feedback.
Like all companies trying to prove how great they are, Forget-Me-Not Panties says, "We are proud to say we have been written-up in several international magazines." You're right; people are talking about you, and now you can add me to the list. I'm sure they'll imply it's all positive remarks though and not let on that everyone thinks they're going a little overboard to help possessive boyfriends and husbands, not to mention crazy, way overprotective parents. The panties that include the heart rate monitor and heat sensor are $179.99. A pair. If you really want to know what you're woman is up to, you can probably hire a hobo to follow her around for a week and all it will cost you is a fifth of whiskey, a sandwich, and possibly a hand-job (but that depends on the hobo). And, let's face it, a hobo is probably following her around with his pants around his ankles right now for free anyway. Might as well give him something for it so he'll take notes while catching his breath for the next session of furious masturbation. This whole thing is a horrible idea. I have a hard time believing that a woman wearing these panties won't know something's imbedded inside. Panties fit kind of tight around the waist (in case you're unfamiliar with panties or just an idiot). These things run on a watch battery, which is about a centimeter thick and a little smaller than a dime, and then there's probably some type of housing for the battery and also the transmitter itself. Call me crazy, but I think she's going to feel that lump almost immediately. And good luck trying to get her to wear them. If she's cheating on you, I think she'd probably wear sexier underwear when she goes to the motel to meet her fuck buddy. Also, what do you say when you bring them home from the store or whatever? "Hey, honey. I, uh, bought you some panties today." "Why did you buy me panties?" "Uh... Shit, I wasn't ready for that. Um, because I love you? Put 'em on before you meet the 'girls' for a drink!"
5/26/05 - Blank CD-R's Are Now Harder to Find Than a Child Molester Without a Mustache A while ago, I was bored one day and found this website called Record Nerd. It's a website where you can basically list all of the music you own and trade with people. I started listing the music I could remember I owned and successfully killed about two and a half hours, and then I never touched it again. Well, maybe once or twice, but not recently. Anyway, it sounded good in theory: trading shit I already own for new music I want. Then reality sat on my face and rubbed my nose in its plentiful dingle-berry fields. Since I first made the list, I've gotten about 800 emails from people looking for one or two CD's that they want from me, and 99% of the time it's something you can find anywhere without even breaking a sweat (unless you're fat and prone to sweating), and I usually ignore them. I never trade with these people for several reasons. One, I'm lazy. Two, I'd have to burn the CD they want. Third, I'd have to mail the CD's and my religious beliefs prevent me from patronizing the unholy US Postal Service just so I can mail some asshole a CD he could find in any store (you will pay, mailmen of America, you... will... PAY). And finally, it's because the point of it is to trade CD's and almost every person that wants to trade a CD with me has a list filled with complete garbage. I don't want Clay Aiken. I don't want the soundtrack to Annie Get Your Gun. You can shove your Celine Dion up your canuck-loving ass, you fucking hoser. (Special note to Canadians, the proud citizens of Canadia: I don't hate you. You make delicious maple syrup for my waffles. Also, none of us would have any lumber for our furniture and catapults were it not for your legions of lumberjacks. You guys rock.) Breaking Benjamin is a shitty band with shitty songs. I don't want your top 40 R&B, your poppy emo shit, you bottom of a toilet death metal, and if I wanted to be a vampire I'd start running around in a cape and biting people in the neck, not listening to Black Tape for a Blue Girl (kids who claim to be vampires usually love this band for some reason. And Bauhaus). Stop trying to use the latest Mars Volta bootleg to sway me into trading with you. I have the first album and I never listen to it anymore for a reason. It kind of sucks and I wish I hadn't ignored my hatred of At the Drive In when it warned me not to buy it. So no, I don't want any more Mars Volta. One is already too many. And whenever I find something good in their list of aural diarrhea, guess what: I already own it. So no trade for you. Yesterday my list must've been offering delicious candy to everyone else on Record Nerd because this morning I had about 20 emails, and I get maybe three a week. One after another, it was utter fucking crap. Some idiots didn't even tell me what they wanted (not that I would trade with them anyway), making me guess. And guessing what they want from me is impossible after looking through their lists since everything they own sucks ass. Don't believe me? Check this shit out:
Another girl emailed me last night trying to do a CD trade, and honestly she had some really good music that I wouldn't mind having. Also, she said she'll give me twice the CD's I give her. But there's a catch. I would have to send her blank CD's so she could burn her stuff. What? Why? What is wrong with you? Here's what she actually said:
She doesn't have many blank CD's left and is not able to easily get more? How is that even fucking possible? I have seen spools of blank CD's for sale in fucking gas stations. They sell blank CD spools in every drug store chain in the country. Does she live in a fucking igloo? Is it a 3 day dog sled ride to the nearest general store? And if so, how would you get the package of CD's I send you in the first place? If you're too far away from a store that sells blank CD's, I highly doubt that any mailman or UPS guy will travel all the way out to your desert island in the South Pacific to drop off your mail (goddamned mailmen - damn you!). I also like how she had to write out an example of what the word "double" means in case I'm too stupid to figure it out for myself. I didn't read, "I will burn you double the amount of CDs that you burn me," and think, "HOLY SHIT!!! If I gave her 10 CD's, that'd be one, two... like 8,739,142 CD's!!!!! FUCK YEAH!!!!" Thanks anyway, professor, but I know what the word "double" means since I've been speaking English for the past 25 years. I bet she has a Power Point presentation all lined up and ready to send me in case I'm still confused. She also says, "This is great if you are easily able to get a hold of blank cds (which I am not able to do,obviously.[sic]" No, it's not obvious. Why can't she find any blank CD's? I think the only obvious thing here is that she thinks I'm retarded and wants to rob me of 10 blank CD's and five burned albums, all the while making me waste money on sending it to her fucking house boat and then never hearing from her again. It almost sounds like she's trying to run an Amway scam for CDR's instead of money but forgot how to do it without fucking it all up. I can picture her sitting at the drafting board, marveling at her glorious two-for-one blank-CD-acquiring scheme, thinking, "Wait. I'm not sure if this is how it works. Hmm... Who am I kidding? Of course it is! I'm a genius! That's why I wear this helmet, and soon I'll have enough blank CD's to create a genius throne so that ALL can bask in the glow of my powerful intellect! Now it's time to get back to my job at Taco Bell, where I plan to give customers a free taco if they make their order themselves! Ha ha ha, I just shit my pants!" No thanks, lady; try suckering someone else with your weak ass con attempt.
4/25/05 - More Stupid Bullshit in My Inbox
In what has been becoming a daily fucking occurrence, my email Inbox is being targeted by some kind of cute death ray of shitty email meant to make my heart smile and vomit chocolate syrup onto a basket of puppies. First off, I've already - twice - unsubscribed to this crap using the link these bastards put at the bottom of the email. Obviously the link is a trick. Even though it says "However, If you do wish to un-subscribe, You can: -simply go here-" (unique capitalization left intact to ensure retardation) clicking on it will undoubtedly make them richer, and they'll use that money to take over the world. Then, the only music we'll hear will be church hymns performed on a Pan flute, it will be mandatory to keep a creepy lucid smile on your face 24 hours a day, everyone will have to drive pastel-colored VW Bugs (because they're "cute"), and every Tuesday will be "Wear Pink Day." We'll also receive heart-hugging teddy bears our doorsteps on a daily basis too. Like this one, which was included in the email:
What the fuck? This is getting ridiculous. I don't want to get an uplifting email full of hearts and bunnies and bears ejaculating liquid flowers onto rainbow-fellating kittens on a daily basis. All I want to do is be bitter and throw things. Whoever writes this bullshit is an asshole and I want hate-fuck them in the face. Or do this:
That's right, bitches. I don't want to read your bullshit. I don't care. And take my word for it that I'm better off not being exposed to it. And to any stupid asshole that uses this image:
...that's completely unacceptable and you should be drawn and quartered. Or at least get Polio and explode or something. No one likes cute. Fuck You. And fuck your poems about rainbows and sunshine and smiles and happy fairy princesses that contracted herpes from sucking too much hobo cock in the back alley behind the ballroom. If I see one more vomit-inducing picture of a unicorn eating cotton candy surrounded by gophers in top-hats and feel-good sweaters I will go on a murderous rampage and blow up a Hallmark store or two. My brain has been poisoned. And to the "thousands of you [that] have been asking for this page," words cannot express how much you need a swift kick in the ass and a smack in the face with a shovel. You make me sick.
4/19/05 - Stupid Spam Email Today, I got this uplifting email from some type of happiest-thing-ever named "Friends Are Great" (that praises him 2!!!!!!). Here it is:
Yes, it does sound like it was translated from Japanese into Latin into Sanskrit and then into English using an incomplete set of magnetic refrigerator poetry. I have no idea how I got signed up for uplifting friendship emails sent by a a team of robotic pink bunnies, but it did fill my insides with sunshine jelly (well, it was either sunshine jelly filling up my insides or the boiling poison I drank drank earlier to prove how tough I am). My new internet friend even truly in hope I am well, and that's the nicest thing any robot has ever said to me. No one else truly in hopes I am well, and from now on you can all kiss my ass until you are all truly in hope about me. But the fact that "Friends Are Great" said we are only simple friends upsets me. "Friends Are Great" must not think I'm living up to my bestest friend potential. So, in order to correct this and get the golden star of lovely brotherhood, I've printed out the email and made many copies of it. Then I sent one to the angry guy who lives down the street and sent the rest to 73 random addresses. I also included this picture:
I can't wait to see how many friends I make with this inspiring message of love and fellowship! I am truly in hope the luckiest guy ever. I wish this wasn't the last greeting I will ever get from "Friends Are Great" because I don't remember getting any from him before, and if I had I would have put all of the emails in my special happy dreams box I keep in the basement next to the cage that's filled with all the screaming children I've kidnapped over the years. And now that I think about it, I should've given some friendship cards to all of my little captives yesterday, but instead I'll just give them this card/warning when I throw their raw circus animal meat dinner at them tonight:
Note: I have no idea where I got this picture from, but it's fucking awesome. If you made it, email me because you're my new hero. My old hero was Lou Diamond Phillips' understudy.
3/07/05 - Banner Ad... of the DAMNED Here's a banner ad from Overture Search Advertising that was on Yahoo today:
Is that not the scariest fucking picture ever? Look at her face, that evil grin and what looks like no fucking pupils. She is fucking sinister. Also, the sign she's holding; "I want to buy what you sell." What are we selling? I'm guessing babies and our souls. And she's really fucking happy about eating those babies and souls. She must feed. She can be stopped, however. On her left hand is the source of all her evil sorceress baby-&-soul-eating powers: the Green Ring of Powerful Doom*. In order to stop the succubus of baby-devouring, you must trick her into eating her own hand and the ring in the process. Here's what you can do:
After she's gone, all the babies in the universe will survive and everyone that hasn't sold it already will get to keep their soul. Until they sell it to MTV or something. *Disclaimer - The Green Ring of Powerful Doom is made of plastic and dreams and can be found inside any box of General Mills cereal. Avoid eye contact, in case of ingestion consult a physician immediately, do not immerse in water, do not make the Green Ring of Powerful Doom angry, prolonged exposure to the sun will destroy the Earth, when wearing the Green Ring of Powerful Doom the wearer will develop an insatiable hunger for baby flesh and the souls of all humans, in order to avoid the wrath of the Green Ring of Powerful Doom, play Jefferson Starship's "We Built This City" for it every 8 hours. Damn you, Overture Search Advertising, for helping her eat children. The worst part is that the company has released even more ads with this evil demon. The one at the top is the tamest of them all. Here's what I mean:
She must be stopped.
9/29/04 - Way to Park, Ass-head
Look at this parking job. I go outside for a cigarette today, I see how this retard is parked, and I had to take a picture of it. Who can't park straight in a parking lot? I can somewhat understand that most people, myself excluded, can't parallel park because they never have to when they live in the suburbs. Whenever I go downtown, I always see some stupid girl trying to parallel park her Jetta in a space three times the size of her car and fucking it up on every attempt. Maybe I'm just used to that. But when I see someone that can't pull straight into a parking spot in a lot, which requires no skill whatsoever, I think "Man, you should've been aborted because you're obviously too inept to function in society." What an asshole. This guy was not even fucking close to getting it right. It's even funnier because it's a giant clunky SUV, and 95% of the people that drive an SUV are idiots. Was this asshole in such a hurry that he couldn't at least make some kind of feeble attempt at straightening out? What really pisses me off is that this piece of shit probably makes more money than I do.
9/21/04 - Trying to Get Laid by Meeting People Online Means You're a Fuck-Tard I'm sitting at work, trying as hard as I can to alleviate my boredom, and something's been bothering me. Not on a personal level, but on the whole "everyone's a goddamned retard" level. I've been going through Myspace, clicking on random people's profiles or whatever, and I've noticed a theme: people are always trying to get some ass on the internet. Like, there's all these dudes trying to meet up with girls on the internet just to get laid. Aside from the fact that these dipshits live in their mom's basement, watch Star Trek/Babylon 5/whatever the current sci-fi TV fad is, listen to Insane Clown Posse, play online RPGs, masturbate to Telemundo five times a day, and refuse to leave their house for fear of internet withdrawal, trying to get laid on the internet is the most pathetic display of desperation since that loser kid killed himself when someone destroyed his fort in Everquest when he was on vacation. Granted that there's always someone as horny as you are introverted and pathetic, there's no excuse for that kind of loser bullshit. If you're one of these people, you suck. I'm not talking about people looking to get married through online personals (although I think that's pretty lame too), I'm talking about 30-year-old shut-ins that play Pokemon card games in comic books stores with 10-year-old kids that aren't theirs, desperately trying to find someone equally desperate for ass, trying to lose their virginity once and for all to create the illusion of a productive sex life to keep up the charade of actually having self esteem. Seriously, how much of a douche-bag can you be? At least try to get a girl at a bar. It's not hard, especially around 2:00 when the girls that haven't found anyone yet run around looking for some dude to fuck to save face in front of her jackass friends that would call her a prude otherwise. At least then you're almost guaranteed to get some kind of action, and you can do it all without typing poorly-spelled pick-up lines for days at a time until some stupid bitch humors you, you both meet up, and she turns out to be either a serial killer, a vegetable, or a big fat gay dude in an "I love cock... especially IN MY ASS" T-Shirt (that also loves Babylon 5, Everquest, and lives with his mom - it's a match made in stupidity!). I know that the internet can hide things like oral herpes, 400 pounds of lard, missing teeth, tiny penises and a prosthetic limb or two, but is trying to find someone that will fuck you on Myspace worth the last microscopic shred of your self-respect? Apparently so. Good luck, assholes. And keep doing stupid shit so that I have something to make fun of while I'm bored at work.
7/26/04 - Wacky Porn Emails
First of all, let me just say that I'm a big fan of porn just like everyone else in my demographic. However, I don't know how this happened but my bulk email folder is filled every day with the gibberish above. Usually, it's the Free Lesbian Yearbook shit. I get about 10 of these a day, and they're all pretty self explanatory. Lately I've been getting some weird ones that look like they were typed up by a monkey who bashed keyboards together until the email mysteriously got sent. The names of the "people" sending me these are hilarious too. Okay, Julia and Kara are normal or whatever, but a couple times a week I'll get a badly-spelled porn email from a ridiculous name. Like "Troy H. Dispossess." I don't know where they got the name from, but if my name was Troy H. Dispossess, I can assure you that my underwear would probably yank itself up my ass crack. Look at the subject line: "Wet Chicks Eevry Hloe Fileld with Cum." At first I thought that the online porn industry started hiring little retarded boys to type up their spam emails (you know, instead of the little regular boys they already hire). Then, I decided to stick with my original thought of monkeys typing these things up. Why are three words spelled blatantly wrong? I mean, they spelled "cum" right, but "every," "filled," and "hole" were a little too tricky for them. It's not like there's a benefit to typing them that way. It's not like anti-porn programs are eliminating all emails containing "filled" and "every," but leaving emails that say "cum" alone. Fucking retardation. Now back to the Julia and Kara emails. I clicked on them both because, although I assumed they were porn (and they were), a part of me wanted to believe that I was a secret agent and these were correspondences from sexy female spies that wanted to team up with me to destroy the afterlife. And that would be totally sweet. I mean, what would you think if you got an email that said, "divine offspring strangers thin unanswered significantly beyond?" How about one that said, "binding attachment prayers pains purchased?" Those two sentences mean absolutely nothing and make no sense whatsoever. But they would make sense if it was a secret code from a spy, and they are awaiting my secret code response. So to Julia, I sent "the crow catches fire flies south into pudding" as my response, and I told Kara "unholy gossamer mask will devastate Newark liberating mole people." Hopefully I get my replies soon, because I'm really eager to get this super-secret spy stuff underway. And for the record, yes, I do like it pink. I was a little pissed at myself for leaving before those two girls made out though. Oh well.
7/12/04 - Nice Fucking Shirt, Douche Well, check this shit out:
I saw this guy on his phone all fucking day in my office. He is some foreign guy and he was in the building for a meeting or some shit. I first saw him in my office, and after my spit-take, I said to myself "I wish I had a camera to take his picture, but I don't want him to know I'm taking his picture." Then I remembered I had a camera phone. Later I saw him in the lobby, and I tried to take a picture with my phone but it was way too dark. This was going on all day; I'd keep missing the chance to take his picture. Then, as I was going to my car, he was outside. The light was fine and I got a picture. Now we can all laugh at him. Okay, you can make a pathetic attempt at defending him by saying "OOH, HE'S FOREIGN! HE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO DRESS IN AMERICA!!!1" Well, you'd be WRONG. First of all, foreign or not, he's visiting an office on business. All the foreign people with him were in suits. He decided to wear his "Holiday Bikes" shirt. Not that I care about what's inappropriate at the office, but one of his boys could have at least told him to wear a suit and burn that shirt immediately. But they didn't. He must be the cool-guy rebel of the crew. What a tool. Let's take an in-depth look at this shirt. You may find this difficult because every instinct you have is telling you to look away and scream. First, it's red, green and white all over the place. It looks like the interior of a pizza place threw up on him. Second, the shirt says "Holiday Bikes." I don't know what that means. And finally, it's got a cartoon of two people on bikes (that I'm guessing are of the "holiday" variety), and the person that drew the original design probably survives on sea water, lead paint, and guano. It looks ridiculous. As a side note, this douche was on the phone all day in the lobby, in the office, and out in the parking lot. I'm guessing he was calling either:
I'm not saying that I know anything at all about fashion, but at least I know enough to not wear that shirt. And, yes, I'm also saying that I'm an asshole, and I don't fucking care.
As you can see, there is absolutely no excuse in the world for a bike to have a basket on it. I don't care if it's a girl's bike. I don't care if the bike is specifically for retarded girls with one leg and two heads, this kind of shit is unacceptable. It probably has a bell on it, too.
6/24/04 - She's Rocking Out Way Too Fucking Hard Last night, I went to see Skinny Puppy at the Electric Factory. I was really super-pumped for it, being that I listened to Skinny Puppy all the time in high school and the last time they toured was in 1992. I had figured I'd never see them because they were broken up. Well, they came out with a new CD and are touring. The only places in the entire country that they are playing at, however, are Chicago and Philadelphia. So last night, the place was fucking packed with people from DC to New York. Well, Skinny Puppy fucked up a lot, but it was still good. However, we were standing on the balcony right behind this goober of a woman who danced. Constantly. She didn't stop. And it was some of the worst dancing I've ever seen in my life. At first, during the random jungle songs they were playing during setup, her dancing wasn't too bad. She was shaking her hips and it wasn't good, but it wasn't too bad. Yeah. Then I saw her face. Wow. The airplane has crashed into the mountain. Anyway, when Skinny Puppy came out, the dancing escalated to a freak out frenzy of no rhythm. She must've been on E or something, because you don't dance that badly for that long. Her moves were as follows: Tapeworm Freak-out: This was the move she did that looked like the giant tapeworm in her stomach couldn't take any more, and was trying to force its way out of her body by any means necessary, causing her hips and ass to gyrate in the most unflattering way ever. During all of her other moves, this one never stopped once for two hours. One-Handed Traffic Stopper: She'd freeze her upper body (while the lower was still gettin' down! OW!) and extend one arm out with her palm up as if she was a traffic cop stopping traffic. Two-Handed Traffic Stopper: Like the One-Handed Traffic Stopper, but double. Regular Rock-Star Point: Like Stopping Traffic, she'd extend her arm to give a rock-star point with one hand. Instead of pointing at the band or another person, like how a normal rock-star point works, she'd point it up at a 45 degree angle. She really liked the duct work, I guess. EXTREME (to the MAX) Rock-Star Point: Like the regular, but with two hands pointing at nothing in particular. The Fist Pump: Violently pumping her fist up and down as if she was beating the shit out of a table. The Shame On You: Like the Fist Pump, only she'd also be wagging her index finger as if to say, "Shame on YOU for rocking so hard!" The Rag doll Head: She'd roll her head around and fling it back and forth as if her neck was made of Jell-O. Like it seeped out of her brain cavity and conquered her neck. Also, it made her nappy, greasy hair fling around. Gross. It almost looked like that stupid "exercise" everyone had to do in grade school gym classes where you roll your head around in a circle. I never understood that one either. Anyway, for two hours this lasted. She danced non-fucking-stop. I watched her more than I was watching the stage. It was hilarious. But, the really funny thing was the guy that was with her. He sat the whole time, arms crossed, staring directly ahead emotionlessly. You know what he was thinking. "What the fuck is wrong with this girl? I take her out to a concert and she dances like a machine. A machine that has something seriously wrong with it." It was the third funniest thing of the night (second being the dancing queen, first would be the shirt I wore where I painted "I EAT BABIES" on the front).
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When
my daughter hit puberty I nearly had a heart attack. She started looking
like a woman and suddenly she was wearing revealing clothing and staying
out late with her friends.
Update:
the Holiday Bikes website can be found