A couple of thoughts about the whole tragedy:
1. NBC News is a piece of shit for airing segments and letters from the package Cho sent them. That's what he wanted, you douchebags. Now every whackjob is gonna know he'll die in infamy if he finally decides to mow down some people. He just needs to fire up the old video camera first. They merely pay lip service to the victims, because it's the actual death that makes the news, not the lives that were lost.
For example, look at the Amish school shooting. The Amish simply forgave the shooter, and then moved on. They didn't plaster his picture everywhere. We Americans can be pretty sick fucks sometimes- we get off on our supposed revulsion to violence by talking about how much we hate it until we're blue in the face.
2. Everybody is bitching about gun control. Gun control is not the solution- creating a society where people tend to not go crazy is. He could have just as easily used a bomb or poison gas or laced the campus cafeteria's food supply.
But since I'm pretty sure we're just going to stay fucked up, here's an idea. Let's allow people over the age of 21 who pass a battery of psychological and background tests to apply for a civilian police position- basically full-time off-duty cops who get to carry a weapon. I sure as hell don't want to wait ten minutes for the cops to show up while some nutcase is spraying students and walls with lead. How many lives could have been saved if someone in the building had been carrying a firearm, been trained in its use, and had a suitably working moral compass?
Gun control doesn't work for another reason- the people who aren't supposed to have them don't care too much about the laws. So decent Americans are left without protection, and the fuckups get to run willy-nilly with the guns they buy from drug sales and smuggling rings.
3. My thoughts are with those who passed away on that campus- I hope you find some kind of peace somewhere.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Virginia Tech
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Hiatus
I'm so fuckin' tired of TV commercials. The next time you think a dollar isn't worth much, just watch a damn commercial. All those bastards want you to plunk down your money, and they try to entice you with fancy commercials. It's all bullshit. MacDonald's has gotten rich by selling us one dollar burgers that cost 20 cents to make. A dollar here- a dollar there- pretty soon they're worth over a billion dollars. The shit adds up.
Deal Or No Deal is the worst. I swear, I think there's more commercials than there actually is television show. I get tired of the commercials even when I Tivo through them- that's how many there are. I get it, people- you make the best truck/drink/hair replacement produce/diet plan/alcoholic beverage/online dating site in the world, and it'll only take me a few bucks to get in on the action. All of you suck.
It's kinda sad that Coke pretty much knows that if it pulls all of its advertising, people would slowly stop buying their product. Because we're not drinking Coke, we're drinking soda water that a billion dollar company has driven into our heads. It's not even a choice anymore- it's a Pavlovian response.
I'm tired, so this isn't fancy or clean, but suffice it to say that commercials can suck my ass. If I want to buy your product, I will- but you don't have to shove it down my throat fifteen times an hour. I don't care if you do have a fully fuckin' boxed frame, Ford. You can still kiss my ass.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Perfection Rejection
Am I the only one that has an image of who I would like to be as a person, yet never do anything about it?
Like this weekend, I have things I'd like the ideal version of me to accomplish. I truly think that if I accomplish these things I'd be happier for it. It's nothing groundbreaking, just wandering around for a few hours and maybe working on a paper I have due for class. Instead, I'll just squander oodles of time and piss the weekend away.
I used to play a cheesy racing game called F-Zero on Nintendo. One of its coolest features was that you could literally race yourself. After running the track once, you could race the ghost image of your old race. Really kind of unnerving, if you thought about it too much.
How much would you shit your pants if the ideal version of yourself walked up and looked you in the eye? They'd probably be harder-working, more physically fit, and extremely balanced. Your ideal self would look at you, sitting on the couch covered in Cheese Puffs and glazed over from one too many episodes of McGuyver, and shudder inconsolably. Then it would leave, silently, and throw itself off of a bridge.
Man. That's pretty fuckin' depressing to think about. I need some Cheese Puffs and a plot about an exploding science lab.
By the way, that's not me in the painting. But I have to admit, my abs are about as chiseled as that guy's face.
Indiana Who?
It's a damn beautiful day outside. Earlier it was overcast, chilly, and windy, but the Sun finally woke up and bitch slapped the clouds away.
The bad news is that I'm stuck inside all afternoon working. It's nice to earn a few bucks here and there, but right now I'd give it all up for the chance to just wander around some back roads and waste a bunch of time.
In my state, you find the coolest shit just wandering around in the middle of nowhere. Most people see riding around as a giant waste of time and gas, but I intensely enjoy it. There's a road miles away from any sign of civilization that has curbs and huge oaks trees lining both sides. They're over a hundred years old, at least. My best guess is that it used to be an old plantation driveway that the State paved over, but I just don't know. There's not a whole lot of money in this State to look into those type of things, so usually the secret is lost to the ages.
On my way to work, I cross an old one-lane bridge that was built around 1900. Records are scant, so they're not exactly sure when it was built, but all the old people nearby say it was there when they were born. Parts of it are falling apart, but it still carries traffic. They'll probably replace it in a few years with a much more modern (and infinitely uglier) contraption. Sigh.
There's even a depression in the earth near the Mississippi River that no one really knows how to explain. Geologists just kind of throw their hands up in the air and say, "Fuck it, I got nothin'." It's that kind of strange. It's round, and intensely deep. Quite spooky to behold. Rumor and historical evidence seems to suggest that some of the pirates and thieves that cruised the river used it as a spot to bury their treasure. Also, I can't figure out why it doesn't fill up with water. It's pretty fucked up.
The last time I was there, it was in the middle of summer, so the woods around it were thick as hell. Giant spiders tried to eat my face off, so I didn't explore further. I'm hoping to go back one day with some climbing gear and reach the bottom. I'm pretty sure there's a magical time portal down there. Or at least, some wicked shrooms. Either one would take me to a very special place.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Off With His Head?
Recently a jury urged that a judge sentence a man to death for the killing of a child. You can read the story here, if you're interested. Being MSNBC.com, it just glosses over the facts, but apparently the guy buried a 9 year old girl alive in some trash bags. I don't know why the age is important- would it be less heinous if he had killed a 15 year old that way? I doubt it.
I'm not a fan of the death penalty, simply because humans tend to make mistakes. And even if they're right 99% of the time, that means 1% of the people on death row are innocent. Which is, in my opinion, a special kind of suck.
I'm not familiar with the details of the case (I don't really care, either) but I do know that a jury has an emotional, gut-reaction type response to these type of trials. There's no "innocent until proven guilty" mentality. There's only a, "Somebody's gotta pay for this shit" mob thing goin' on that can't be good. I mean, you know the State's gonna bring charges against someone, just to avoid public outcries. So they pick the most likely suspect, and send him down the river. The jury would convict anyone, if the prosecutor has any talent at all.
Also, life in prison has to suck infinitely worse. It might be bearable for a few years, but once you realize you're goin' to die in that hellhole, it's gotta suck pretty hard. And then you got the other guys either a) trying to fuck you, b) trying to shank you, d) trying to give you Hepatitis C and/or AIDS, or d) all of the above. It can't be good times. Especially if they know you killed a child.
Even the cruelest son of a bitch in prison won't stand for that shit. There's guys in there who will rob a bank and shoot five cops in the face without thinking about it, but they go apeshit when they learn about someone hurting a child. A few years ago, didn't some inmates hold a guy down and put a prison tattoo on the guy's face? Oh yeah, they did. You know the guard was paying attention that day. Wink. Wink.
Also, the death penalty is painless. You just go to sleep. Hell, I can go to sleep. That doesn't take any balls. They don't even really fry people anymore, do they? Just a little shot to make you sleepy. Jerk Wads.
All I'm saying is, there are fates worse than death. One of them is spending fourty years in a maximum security prison before dying with a painful Hepatitis C related infection and the nickname "Easy Rider."
I'm not saying the guy isn't the scum of the earth, only that he's getting off easy by being put out of his misery.
Sweatin' Like a Whore in Church
I hate summers in the Deep South. If you're from the North, imagine walking around in a warm and wet blanket for six months out of the year. Because it's not just hot, it's humid. And water (if you remember your science from high school) conducts heat like a mother fucker.
So pretty soon you're covered in this soupy sweat shit all day, and there's nothing to do. You can faint if you think terribly strenuous thoughts. Before the advent of air conditioning, my grandfather said that people just lounged around butt naked all day on their front lawns. Made weed whacking an adventure, he would claim. Of course, he was an alcoholic, but I'm pretty sure that's a pretty strong point.
In the middle of July, crack dealers will switch to selling ice water for a few weeks, because there's a greater profit margin. Hookers give it away for free if you rent a hotel room with a swimming pool, I hear. Usually they get along famously with the crack dealers for those few weeks, causing a crime drop in the middle of Lincoln for a while.
The Sno Cone shacks around town get temporary tax-free status, as their clientele begins to approach something of a cult status. Their customers camp out in tents, read from the company's manual, and hold quiz bowls on the subject matter. It's pretty freaky stuff.
I could go on and on, but trust me, it's pretty fuckin' hot down here.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Kids Are Weak These Days
Earlier today I rescued a turtle from the middle of the road, simply because that's how I roll, bitches. It was a big one, maybe tipping the scales at three to four pounds. He was feisty, too, and kept trying to rip my fingers off with his needle claws.
I took him home and then rode my bike to a nearby creek to drop him off. I'm no turtleologist, but I figured he'd like some water.
There was a kid standing next to a bike. He was maybe eight or nine. He asked me if I could get his tennis balls for him, and I said, "Sure, as soon as I release this turtle." It was a very Napoleon Dynamite type moment. I think to myself it's pretty sad that this kid's playing tennis by himself in the middle of the street, but then I determine he probably just doesn't have any friends. It's still sad, but I like to supply my depressing thoughts with a logical explanation.
So I release my captured turtle into the creek, and it simply sinks like a stone. "That's not good," I thought to myself, especially since this kid's watching my every move. I really don't want to be the one to break it to him that stuff dies. "See that turtle there, Timmy?", I'd say, pointing towards the murky water, "That's what happened to your grandpa. Turns out he's not just asleep."
So we stare at the water for a while, me and this kid I've never met, and pretty much watch nothing for a few minutes. It was very Faulkneresque, and it kind of gave me the chills.
After wigging myself out due to the fact that a) I'd just killed a turtle, and b) I'd probably severely scarred some little boy for life, I climbed out of the creek.
Then I go to get his tennis balls. I'm thinking they're in some kind of heavy brush, because the kid was probably Barry Bonding them into God knows where. So I ask, "Where are they?" He walks to the edge of the road and says, "There. I didn't want to get stung by the bee."
The tennis balls are like literally half a foot off the pavement. The grass is maybe two inches tall. This is ridiculous. Someone should get this kid some therapy, if he's that scared of one bee. Also, the bee was flying around us the whole time- did he think that the bee was going to get super pissed if he moved six inches to the left? I'm pretty sure all bees think are, "Buzz, buzz, fly, buzz, danger, buzz, buzz." I don't think tennis balls and vendettas are really part of their bag of tricks.
In my day, we were jumping off shit, scuffing our knees, swimming in ponds, getting cut up to hell and back in briar bushes, tempting tetanus on a daily basis, borrowing machetes to hack our way through the woods, building clubhouses, and playing with slingshots that could quite easily put your life (much less your eye) out. Sure half of my childhood friends died in freak accidents, but that doesn't change the fact that today's kids are soft. We need a major foreign power to attack us, so this younger generation is forced to man up and grow a pair.
P.S. The turtle lived. Apparently they can hold their breath for a really, really long time.
Cash is King
I love this shit, because it's meant to be commercial, and the execs won't to make some money off the magnificent bastard before he heads toward the white light of death, but he's so authentic they don't know what to do with him. When music executives encounter that kind of authenticity, they're flabbergasted. Mostly, because they don't see it anymore.
Look in the man's eyes. If you can't feel his pain, you have no soul. Here he is, looking back over a past filled with so many mistakes and streaks of greatness, and he realizes that all he's got is a bunch of dusty trophies. He makes a lot of dramatic arm movements that would be laughable if anyone else tried them, but you can tell he doesn't give a damn anymore. If Johnny Cash wants to charade a couple words, that's fine. I don't tell God when to make it rain; I won't tell Cash how to sing a song.
What pisses me off about the music industry today is that people like Johnny Cash would never make it in today's commercial climate. They don't have the "look." God, how I hate the "look." Talent means nothing, as long as you look the part. They can fix the singing in the recording studio nowadays, and they feed you backup tracks when you sing live. It's a big joke.
I'll try to lay off the music videos for a while- I fully realize the tens of people who visit this blog come here solely for my rapier wit.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Decapitated Headlines
Here's a sampling of real and current headlines from MSNBC.com, with my critique of them following after each in italics. My point is, these news organizations are about as concerned with the transmission of truth as Trump is about finding a great leader to run one of his 2,000 corporations. I'm pretty sure he's just in The Apprentice to make money, but I've been wrong before. The actual headlines show up after the jump.
1. "U.S. struggles to find fresh troops for Iraq buildup."
I guess the mobile spa units with armor-piercing nail stations haven't been finished yet. I love how they use the word "fresh" as a code word for "breathing." Also, that's exactly why we're losing the War on Terror- our boys are winded. They need oxygen masks. Gee, and I thought it was because we had stepped into an ideological morass spanning thousands of years and hinging on the very fundamental beliefs of ancient religions? Man, I'm an idiot sometimes. Our soldiers just need a breather. That's good to know.
2. Mexican leader vows drug crackdown, prods U.S.
I love how MSNBC just assumes that the average reader of its site wouldn't recognize the leader of Mexico's last name. They'd be like, "The channel that brought us the Simpsons and Family Guy is fighting the drug war? Isn't that hypocritical?
Also, "prods" either conjures sexual imagery or farm animal behavior therapy. Really bad choice of words. Next time, try not to hire someone just because they have an English degree and they're dating the editor's daughter.
"Vows" doesn't make sense either. He's not getting married, after all, or swearing to kill a blood enemy by sundown. They just picked it because it was short. I bet they suck at Scrabble and crossword puzzles.
3. "Man seeks to dispel public's fear of ski masks."
This is what we call a shit story. You should never click on these types of stories because the best part about them is the headline. It never fails- the story is never as good as the one you instantly make up in your head. Instead of being some cranky old bastard who's pickled himself half to death, it's some yuppie from Oregon trying to make a few bucks off the winter ski season. And the only reason they're running the story is because he used the date the editor's daughter.
4. "Packers fans cry 'No Moss!'"
This is mind-boggling, because they think that their readers won't know Vincente Fox's name, yet that they'll instantly latch on to the fact that "No Moss!" is a clever play on words of a quote said by Rocky Marciano, a whitey boxer from God knows when. Way to keep tabs on your demographic, goatfuckers. I'm so tired.
Also, it should be Packers', with an apostrophe after the "s." See #2 RE: Employee Qualifications Advice.
5. "Tornado caught on cell phone."
Why the fuck is this even news? I've seen a tornado before. I've seen a cell phone before. I'm pretty sure that when the two meet, it's not terribly exciting. How, with a website that covers all the news in the world, can this make it on the front fuckin' page? Unbelievable.
By the way, if you didn't picture a tiny tornado twisting inside an actual phone, you really can't be my friend.
6. Hindus hang from hooks.
Someone's been drinking too deep from the ol' alliteration pool. Literary techniques are not Legos or Twinkies- you can't just grab a few on a whim and then leave them for the dog to piss on later. With great power comes great responsibility, bitches. As someone with an English degree, I can say with some amount of confidence that if Milton read this headline, he'd wreak some unholy hell on the motherfucker who drew this one up.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Politicking
Occasionally I like to turn the scope of my searing genius onto the national stage, because even I get tired of talking about local politics. Local politics, after all, is about as important as two dogs fuckin' in the backyard. You look for a second, feel a mixture of elation and shame, and then walk away. At least I do.
National politics is like elephant fuckin'. I mean, come on, you got to pull over on the side of the road and watch that shit go down.
I still can't quite believe Hillary Clinton is actually running for President. I'm a Libertarian, so in my heart I don't really care who wins, but I amazed she thinks she's electable. She might even do a good job, but that doesn't mean she'll get in.
I'm pretty sure Stephen Hawkings would make an awesome President, as he's smarter than all of us put together, but America's not going to vote for a guy with a robot voice and evil dictator wheelchair. Not in the age of television, at least.
First off, she's polarizing. People either love her or hate her. And if it's one thing Democrats don't want, it's a polarizing figure in the next election. They could almost win back the White House by drawing names out of a hat, as long as that person doesn't draw any type of ire. What I mean to say is, a random plumber from Minnesota would have a better shot for the Democrats than Hillary.
It's a natural reaction for someone who's been out of power to overreach when they first get a taste of the forbidden fruit. But that's generally a mistake. One must ease into power in national politics. They need a liberal that won't make the rednecks come out en masse simply to vote against him or her, like they did with the gay marriage ban. Did you see the lines in Florida last time? People were literally coming out of the swamps to vote against it. They want conservatives to stay home- which shouldn't be hard, since their morale is so low. Don't give them a reason to get up.
Secondly, she's a woman. At least half of the people who'd say they would vote for her are lying, and will change their vote once they get behind the curtain. I really don't see a lot of men voting a woman into office with this climate. Regardless of your feelings about the War on Terror, it's probably not good business to put in a leader who could get her ass kicked by Sea Monkeys.
Democrats, if you want to win the White House, do the following:
Obama is the bright light of your party. But he's too inexperienced to win the big one right now. You need to Condoleeza his ass into the Presidency over time. Have him and John Edwards (your charismatic candidate) develop a working relationship over time. Let John Edwards win the nomination, and then he picks Obama as his running mate. I really don't see how you could lose with an Edwards/Obama ticket. The son of a South Carolina mill worker running with a guy whose ancestry were slaves in South Carolina. The media (and America) would fall for it hook, line, and sinker.
Of course, they won't do that, and they'll end up running a Clinton/Farrakhan ticket to oblivion somehow. And then they'll blame the country.
I should really start doing retard summaries at the top, like CNN does, because I'm pretty sure 95% of the American populace can't read this many words without blowing out a blood vessel.
Oh well.
Take Two...
I think I like this template better than the original. It seems welcoming.
In other words, it's kinda like that guy or girl you knew in high school that you'll never see again, yet never stop looking for. Like a 50 year old woman feeding chickens from the porch of her trailer. Like used car streamers flying in the spring breeze on the frontage road. Like the glint of the sun off the glass while you're driving too fast with good friends.
Sorry. Bourbon makes me wordy, and apparently causes me to grow a vagina filled with erstwhile emotions. Who knew?
Sometimes I feel like a homeless man making sculptures out of plastic forks. Not even classy sculptures either, just the kind that make the other homeless people beat him up and take his shopping cart after throwing the crappy sculptures in his unconscious face.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Sighting
I actually saw Icicle once. My eyes started bleeding profusely from the sheer sight of his grandeur, so I couldn't stare long. Later, after I had gnashed my teeth for an appropriate amount of time, I was able to recollect my thoughts and write them down.
I saw him at Kinda Fancy Mall, which is in MountainVille, an affluent suburb north of Lincoln. The two are so close that it's hard to tell where MountainVille begins and Lincoln ends, but the ever decreasing amount of litter on the side of the road gives a distinct clue.
This was in the early days of Icicle's reign, where pretty much everybody still liked him. I mean, Lincoln was so bad off, it would be pretty hard to imagine he could make it worse. Oh how sweet innocence is, when one has it.
What I found hilarious about the event was the fact that Icicle was shopping in Mountainville, when one of his big selling points had been bringing more business to Lincoln.
There's a mall in Lincoln, but the fact that Icicle apparently won't shop there on a Saturday night is somewhat telling. Basically the Mall in Lincoln is so shady that the light of the sun never hits the building, and it's engrossed in perpetual twilight. It's not an unsafe place during the day (old people walk around inside it like zombies, and everyone that could cause a problem is still sleeping off last night's vices) but at night, you're taking your life in your hands.
Not only that, but Icicle gets his heart fixed in another state. I know our health system isn't the greatest in the world, but I'd like to think that a heart doctor is a heart doctor is a heart doctor.
It's almost as if Lincoln is his personal political litterbox, and he runs elsewhere to get his food, clothes, and medical treatment.
We're left, then, with just the shit.
Icicle Unbowed, Bitches!
Welcome to the rabbit hole, fuckers!
You remember when logic actually played a part in anything? Where shit was somewhat predictable? Where arrest warrants were actually enforced? Because I've forgotten. I've currently got a carrot shoved up my ass, and shit keeps coming out of my mouth. I'm typing this with my toes and standing on my hands. Alanis Morissette's music actually sounds palatable. I swear, it's upside down land around here.
The Magnificent Bastards vacated the arrest warrant and recused the presiding Judge. Oops.
Now, in the real world (which no longer exists) a new judge would pop up, reissue the arrest warrant- because, after all, Icicle has still violated his parole- and we'd just go on with life. But in this new world, I fully expect the new judge to give Icicle a medal before turning into a T-Rex that hands out hot meals to the rich. Icicle will then declare himself dictator and single-handedly destroy the American military solely with his sheer upper body strength, kinda like The Incredible Hulk. Only much more incredibler and hulkier.
And since we've killed Captain America, there's no one to stop him.
I truly hate you all.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Shit I'd Like To Do Tomorrow But Won't Because Life Sucks
1. Go to the crossroads where Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the devil. I'd like to visit all the purported places- I think there's three. Just 'cause.
2. Drive to Rolling Fork, Mississippi with a pack of Camels and sit in the little gazebo across from the mammoth courthouse and wait for someone to ask me for a smoke, and trade them a cigarette for a story. Repeat until I had no money.
3. Cruise the Natchez Trace with the windows down and "Sweet Child of Mine" blasting on the radio. Once again, just 'cause.
4. Ride my bike from here until I can't ride any further, and then just camp out in the woods next to the road. Repeat until I had no cares.
5. Sit in the middle of the Delta, squish down into the fertile earth, and sing me some fuckin' blues.
6. Smoke a good bit of weed, and then just lay in a canoe in the middle of a lake.
What I'll actually do is go to work and then piss the rest of the night away. I wish I were so stupid I couldn't live out the wretched tomorrow fourteen times before it actually happened.
They Killed Captain America
It's this kind of shit that pisses me off.
Hey, Comrades, I heard there's still a little kid in Newark who believes in Santa Claus. Perhaps if you're fast enough, you can totally crush her spirit as well.
What the fuck is wrong with this country?
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Icicle IV
I remember those halcyon days when life was care free and my biggest worry was running out of ideas to blog about. Cigarette smoke and gentle breezes wafted effortlessly through the myriad hallways of my magnificent brain, and I was content to let the secrets it unearthed linger innocently there for all eternity.
Oh, how the fuckin' shit hits the fan.
Icicle, our esteemed leader, gets indicted, arrested, placed on probation, hunted down with an arrest warrant, and gets subsequently placed in the Burton County Detention Center.
Wondrous. Now I'm quite seriously considering three or four Icicle blogs, an Icicle television channel, a local Icicle newspaper, an a custom-designed diamond studded series of Icicle ankle bracelets. Because, as far as I can tell, the people of Lincoln can't get enough of the Icicle news.
What's sad is that for a little while, at least, this town was a sinking ship with a crazy captain. He wasn't going to find the New World, but he probably had the sense to order someone to steer the ship if a giant flaming iceberg came out of nowhere. Now it's just wandering about, captainless. It's just a matter of time before people are out looting storefronts and refusing to pay for gas.
The optimistic part of me says that the tagline of Gladiator is right, and a hero will rise out of this to lead the city to a brighter day.
But the realistic part of me says that most of us are going to die horrible gang-related deaths.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Beer and Blimps
Went by the ol' Rare Beer Store gas station today and made my own six pack.
Nothing quite says drunken American debauchery like selecting six random ales and heading home to drink the night away. Quite sad, really.
Had a Southwick, which was quite pleasant. Of course, it was my third, so I'm not so sure how well the taste buds were registering.
I've decided that the blimp is the greatest symbol of American jackassery on the planet. I mean, the Hindenburg basically immolates hundreds and hundreds of people, and we have several other modes of safe air transportation. So what do we do? We fly fuckin' blimps with ads on the side so we can get overhead shots of sporting events. I'm pretty sure they could just use stock blimp footage from 1987 most of the time, and no one would notice. Which makes me think it must be pretty fuckin' boring to be a bird.
Not only that, but blimps aren't good for anything. We might as well fly hot air balloons over sporting events. They're only worth is that they're great presents for the rich homosexual who already has everything. Get 'em a nice fuckin' argyle print hot air balloon or blimp, and they'll piss on themselves. But that's about it.
But with a sport where men are slugging through the mud to achieve glory and eternal fame, let's not fly a fag balloon around so we can take pretty pictures. That's cheaper than an old whore.
Now if you'll excuse me, I must go find a blimp to piss on. This Southwick flows right through me.
Pissant Units of Time
My life is generally filled with periods of work, school, and driving back and forth between those two ventures. Every now and then, I get some time at home to eat, relax, and then cry myself to sleep. Just kidding- the Percocets I pop every night tend to dry me out. But the sadness is real. Very real.
If I ever do get any free time during the day, it's pissant time- time that's too short to do anything worthwhile yet too long to be convenient. For example, today I have and hour and a half break between classes. Pure pissant time. By the time I left, it would be time to turn around. So that's out. It's not long enough to even study (haha) because by the time you get into something, you've got to head to class.
So what is a person to do? I usually just sit in a corner and tremble a lot. Of course, that's probably due to the Percocets. But I started taking them to get off of cigarettes, so that makes it okay. Because the possibility of lung cancer is far worse than mania and a numbing sense of consciousness. Right?
I can't feel my fingers- I should probably stop and go to the hospogijdjdgk;olkds,,,,,,,,,,,gargle.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Weed, Porn, and Other Vices
Welcome to my blog.
I thought for a long time about what I was going to write about, and then I unceremoniously thought, "Fuck it." I'll write about whatever comes to mind.
I want another cigarette but I just don't have the energy to get the hell out of the desk chair and walk the fifteen feet. How the hell did I get so tired, and so old so fast? I'm probably going to die soon- or worst, simply zombie ass my way around for the next three decades until I keel over.
My city has the worst railroad crossings. How hard can it be to bridge the concepts of asphalt and iron rails? We can clone a fuckin' sheep but we can't keep my 20+ plus old piece of shit from getting airborne everytime I cross the railroad tracks at five miles an hour. Unbelievable.
I bought some John Courage a few nights ago. The stuff is stout, but for the love of God, it tastes like beer.
If you ever want to really feel sorry for the lot we're in, go visit the MSN Money Boards. I've never seen such a bunch of money grubbing whores in my whole life. They'd sell their mother's bones to buy flowers for a harlot. (I wish I'd written that last line, but alas, I stole it.) The end analysis for everything they do is how will it effect my budget? If their kid came down with cancer they'd drag the bastard around for two weeks shopping for discount chemo treatment. I think they jack off to watching their interest accrue every month. Ridiculous.
I attend a somewhat? nice school where I live. Oddly enough, I didn't know any people who regularly smoked pot before. Now that I'm at this school, I've met three. Coincidence?
By the way, if anyone can explain why alcohol is legal and weed is not, please try. When I get high, all I want to do is watch Conan O'Brien and eat Salt & Vinegar potato chips. How is that hurting the world?
I'm a Libertarian, if you haven't noticed. Which means I think people should be able to do whatever the hell they want, as long as they don't hurt other people. If you and Jane Doe want to piss on each other in your basement while a poodle bites your ear off, go ahead. Smoke a little weed afterward? Whatever. It's not my business- however, when you start doing this shit in my front yard, or on the highway, then it's my problem. That's my politics.
I'll post more later, because 99% of the people who ever make it to this site won't read this long bullshit anyway. They'll read the first two sentences and then their eyes will glaze over before they start the inevitable search for porn. Don't think I don't know, people. Don't worry, I'm coming out with the DVD version so that you can just sit there and have it jammed directly into your heads. Makes you all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it, doesn't it?
