Thursday, September 30, 2004
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Greg, I don't know the answer but will guess Terry Bradshaw. Ask another question not related to jersey numbers; for example who was the only man to hit fifty homeruns in the 1970's or, a really easy one, what two players were drafted before Michael Jordan in the NBA draft?
Josh, you have referred to me as a racist twice in the last year and have been woefully wrong both times. I want to clarify why I used the term urbanization and how it is very accurate of the professional and collegiate sports today. Actually, I am not referring to all professional sports, just basketball and football. My dislike for baseball is centered on the prevalence of supplements, steroids and juiced balls.
Basketball and football have been dominated by black athletes since the late 1960's. My problem with both sports begins in the 1990's with the rise of hip-hop music. I am not a musical historian, nor would I want to be one, but it is fair to say that rap hijacked the hip-hop scene during the 1990's, eventually each term becoming synonymous with one another. I don't like rap music, in fact I despise it. It is misogynistic, anti-white and so full of black stereotypes that makes a Klansman blush. Like the plague it spread, going from simplistic verse set to rhythm to a way of living life. That way of life is the norm in the NBA & NFL.
The rap way of life is very prevalent in the urban inner city. Some argue it simply reflects the way of life on the streets, I believe it is actually what informs that way of life. It feeds the black community a steady diet of visceral hate, all the while taking their hard earned money and moving to the burbs. I wouldn't want to live in the hood, nor would you. I don't hate those who do, but I find those who exploit it, i.e. Suge Knight, Puff Daddy & Weird Al Yankovic, reprehensible.
It says something about the state of the game when Snoop Dog, god love him, could very well be a poster boy for the NBA. He is an ex-con, acquitted murder who gets high all day long. That definition sums up a surprising number of players in the league, which does not go unnoticed by white fans. Why do you think the NBA has seen a steady decline in ratings? It is because suburban white America can't relate to the Allen Iverson's of the world.
We loved Magic Johnson and idolized Michael Jordan. Both men were flawed, one being a chronic womanizer with the other suffering from compulsive gambling problems but we accepted them all the same. They didn't litter their bodies with tattoos of mother and three-eye dragons, nor did they commit violent crimes against coaches, fans or worst of all, their own spouses. Instead they played hard, acted like gentleman in the public eye and were given free reign, even when they committed huge errors like playing professional baseball and hosting a late night talk show. Sadly that was the NBA of the 1980's and early 90's. It is dead now, replaced by the likes of Tracy Too High McGrady and DMX's ugly little brother, Allen Iverson. And, this same lack of respect for self and the game has spread to the college game; instead of going to class, or working on free throws, these kids spend their time getting new and improved Chinese symbol tattoos, committing petty larceny and sexualyl assaulting their classmates.
The NFL, which is as popular as ever, has managed to negate much of the hip-hop influence with clever marketing, public relation gurus and, most effectively, focusing on franchise and not individual superstars. Pretty much everything Warren Sapp hates about the NFL is why it has managed to be successful and not alienate guys named Charlie O'Brien who work in a cubicle. This is a league that has produced several murders (in the last decade no less), numerous rapists, a slew of drug offenders (even a few drug dealers) and its fair share of men carrying weapons without permits, yet everyone seems to forget about the incidents. Their PR machine is unmatched and the reliance on franchise and, not player, loyalty is the reason why it will continue to bring in droves of fans. It also doesn't hurt that most recognizable position, quarterback, is still dominated by corn-feed Midwestern boys and suntanned Californian phenoms. The latter situation is changing, which I believe is for the good, as more and more teams feature black quarterbacks but it is still a factor as to why the game is so popular and easy to relate to.
That is the thesis of my post; my inability to relate to NBA and NFL players is why I don't enjoy the games. I don't notice the players skin tone but can't help being offended by their way of life. The urbanization of the sports has alienated me along with many others. I find the rapper lifestyle, which has become the NBA and NFL lifestyle, to be offensive, shallow, and racist. Allen Iverson, Terrell Owens and countless others, do a great disservice to themselves and the young black men who seek to emulate their outrageous and dangerous lifestyles. When you speak to the lowest common denominator of society, don't expect my glowing approval. (Unless, we are talking about an Adam Sandler movie)
You can keep your urbanized sports: I will stick with my Nascar and country music.
Go to Hell
Go to Hell
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
September was a good month; I participated in two successful auctions, witnessed this blog reach an average of well over forty-five visits a day, and I ate a twelve inch sub from the local deli. Sadly, only two of those acts stand up against scrutiny, while the other appears to be far from a meritorious accomplishment.
At this rate I Hate You will have nearly 1500 unique visits by the end of the month. Now, I understand that isn't an extreme amount, but the little girl I keep locked in the closet was beaming with pride at the accomplishment. Upon further research, I discovered 81% of those who visited the blog-of-blogs stayed for under five seconds. I read at an average of 750 to 1,000 words a minute, which is a fairly rapid pace. Assuming the 81% read at same rate as me, the most they could view in five seconds would be 62.5 to 83.3 words. My average post contains 224 words, which means the overwhelming majority of you read, at most, 1/3 of a single post.
I am saddened by the fact: No, I am enraged at the fact. Therefore, I now promise to write a more inclusive blog, one that speaks to all peoples, colors, genders and nationalities. Actually that sounds like a lot work, instead I am going to include the phrase anal sex porn midget in this text, leading to a huge influx of traffic. Hopefully the desperate porn legions, looking for a free glimpse of anal sex porn midget will vainly search throughout the site.
All they will find is:
Monday, September 27, 2004
I spent nearly six hours attempting to discern the how and why of the problem; I was unable to find either answer. After flirting with the idea of putting my fist through the motherboard, I concluded the problem would be better served by wiping the hard drive clean and reinstalling Windows XP. Thankfully, dad primarily uses his personal computer to surf eBay and check his webmail, so nothing was lost beyond his IE Favorites list. Eight hours later (apparently a couple years ago, dad bought the last computer built with a 2x CD drive ) the computer was up and running again. While reinstalling the cable modem software it hit me; Windows Update had installed SP2 the day before the infinite reboot loop had begun.
Gates, damn you straight to hell. You are the reason that I fear ubiquitous computing. A world where my stove shoots hell spawned flames and the toaster impregnates my wife; all because the Windows HA (Home Appliance) operating system had compatibility issues with the new update.
Go to Hell
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Of course this could just be a case of life imitating art, either way, the coasts of New England are once again in peril. All we need now is a Richard Dreyfuss inspired midget placed in a shark cage.
I am betting on the shark to win.
Go to Hell
Thursday, September 23, 2004
One Good Deed
It is hell...getting old. The man said that over and over as I helped him find his car. He had paid the water bill at the water department and managed to lose his car. The man walked several blocks throughout downtown Newark; he ended up in front of dad's store. Issy and I were taking a walk, in lieu of actually doing any work when the man said "I lost my car." I assumed he had parked nearby, somewhere along the square as it can be difficult to discern one parking spot from another. We walked around the block, I noticed the man was tiring and I told him to sit and rest. The Brothers Wilson walked around several more blocks, searching vainly for a "black Chevy truck with a covering on the back", the old man could not provide anymore detailed information. Issy pointed out a black Chevy truck with a covering about two blocks away; I hoped it was the right one.
We went back and took the befuddled man to "his" car, upon reaching the vehicle he stated that he was looking for a Ford, one that has a two folding backseats and pointed to a nearby caravan as an example. I began to realize that the man wasn't entirely sure what car he drove, which was going to make finding his vehicle very difficult. And, to make matters worse he could barely stand. I failed to mention one fact; he was ninety years old.
After instructing him to rest on the nearby bench, I asked if he needed any water, the man said "No. I feel like a damned fool. It is hell...getting old." I assured him that everyone makes a mistake and hurried back to the store so I could use dad's van to make the search a bit easier. Ten minutes later with Issy in tow we drove back to the man and set off, once again, to find his wayward car.
I checked virtually every parking lot, space, nook and cranny between the courthouse and the Water Department, apparently the car had disappeared, or was never there in the first place. I quizzed the man several times and discovered that he was now sure the car had been parked by the Water Department.
Could someone else have picked it up? No, he didn't have anyone else. Did you leave a spare key in the car? No, I have my only key with me. This left three possibilities: 1. The car, truck, or mini-van, whichever it was, had been towed. 2. The car had been stolen by a very brave and/or stupid thieves in broad daylight in the parking lot next the City's Water Department. 3. The vehicle never existed in the first place. I figured it was option number three but that lead to more troubling questions: Why was the elderly gentleman all alone, wandering throughout the downtown and who had lost him? I inquired at the Water Department if any vehicles had been towed, the answer was no. Therefore, there was little else I could do to help.
I told the man that his best bet was to seek the help of the local Police Department; he agreed that was the best course of action or at least I think he did in the form of nodding his aged head. All he could keep saying was "It is hell...getting old."
I parked two hundred feet or so away from the entrance to the Police Department; I really believe those were the longest two hundred feet of his life. He could barely walk, I offered to assist him but he politely shooed me away. Several times he faltered and nearly fell, thankfully, I along with several cars, were there to offer support. Eventually he made it to the door, I opened it of course, and we arrived to the station. The clerk, or whatever you call non-uniformed woman at the front desk, inquired what I needed. I quickly and concisely detailed the particulars of our ill-fated adventure. She thanked me for bringing him there and gestured for me to leave. She motioned for the man to come forward and I left without ever so much as a goodbye.
I regret not staying a little longer, at least to say goodbye. I never did think to ask his name, nor did I offer my own. It never came up or at least I never thought to bring it up. I hope he found his erstwhile occupied car. His haunting mantra still echoes in my thoughts: It is hell...getting old.
Go to Hell
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Hairy dykes meet über-bitch. I know it is wrong to take pleasure from the possible sexual intimidation and assault of another, be that as it may, I hope Miss Stewart learns the true meaning of the term "Carpetbagger" during her confinement in prison camp. One can only hope.
No, I don’t hate lesbians or think anything is wrong with the lifestyle (In fact I am quite enamored with lesbian sex and how it relates to my life), I just hate uppity and duplicitous she-beasts. Furthermore I wouldn't have a problem with Ken Lay being probed for information by Big Bubba & Company. Of course I wouldn't take any pleasure from that act because that would be gay.
Go to Hell
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
I will admit that Fox News leans right as long as you will admit that CNN, MSNBC, and the big three network stations: NBC, ABC and CBS lean left. There is nothing wrong with partisanship, even if only one side is right (excuse the pun). Objective truth is not applicable in today's media, if it ever was, and it is about time we acknowledge it.
Fox News is taking particular glee with Memo-Gate and I don't blame them. They are constantly assaulted for being partisan, so when the people throwing stones are revealed to live in glass houses, Fox News is filled with glee.
The only thing that would make this better is if they actually find indisputable evidence that higher-ups in the Kerry campaign and/or the Democratic party were part of the scandal.
Here is to Richard Nixon finally being able to rest in peace.
Go to Hell
Monday, September 20, 2004
Interview with a racist
Me: Hey, did you see that black girl over there? Baby got back and then some.
Unnamed friend: That girl isn't black. She is just really tan.
Me: No, I am pretty sure she is black, probably bi-racial.
Unnamed friend: Bi-racial? Oh, you mean she is black with an asterisk.
Me: You are my hero.
Unnamed friend: Bemused expression I probably shouldn't have said that.
Me: I will give you a dollar if you say that to her face.
Unnamed friend: No, that is alright.
Me: Silent, hidden racism isn't funny. Oh, I long for the Jim Crow days of yore. I can't get enough of the "you have to be this pink to eat here" signs that littered the South only scant decades ago.
The following didn't happen, exactly. It is a fictional recreation of a conversation with a friend, who is too much of a pussy to own his words, and his creation and subsequent use of the term "black with an asterisk."
Let me perfectly clear here, I am not a racist; I just happened to befriend several dozen of them over the years. I love all peoples: the blacks, the Jews, the Canadians, even the French. Well, I do hate the Mexicans, but doesn't everybody? Ok, I am kidding. I don't like the Jews either.
Go to Hell
She wore "a white strapless dress"; I thought you had to be chaste to wear white. Not that innocent, my ass, more like "a whole lot of whore."
Pleasantries asides, I do wish you and the back up dancer the best, and when you get divorced sixteen months from now, know that I will be waiting for you. I might not be handsome, extremely well built, but remember Britney, I AM NOT A FUCKING BACK UP DANCER. You would be better off marrying a homeless transient who collects pubic hair from public restrooms.
Go to Hel
Authors Note: I once loved Britney, but now know she is a dirty, stupid whore. Now, I only have eyes for my Conservative Athena, Ann Coulter.
Saturday, September 18, 2004
By the way I do know that it is a bad form to speak lightly of the dead, however I am going to make an exception in this case. Sometimes it is necessary to cull the stupid from the herd. I have participated in many an alcohol-laden night, sometimes consuming a couple dozen drinks in the course of a few hours.
One particular night I drank to the point where I vomited blood, lots and lots of blood. My friends decided the best course of action was to lay me on my back in bed and to continue partying on. I don't really blame them, since shortly before the red sea parted from my mouth, I threatened to throw each of them out my window and actually did throw a telephone at my roommate of the time. Luckily, I missed his head by two or three inches and instead shattered the phone against the wall. Anyway, I was left alone, up to my own devices, and very possibly dying; if I had died it would have been sad. I doubt the world would have ever recovered from my loss, I am that damn important. However, it would have been my fault that death occurred and had a misanthropic blogger decided to make light of it so be it. Dead people have better things to worry about, like brains and staving off the demons of hell.
Go to Hell
Friday, September 17, 2004
Happily Ever After or a Grimm Fairy Tale?
I don't typically write reviews because in doing so I usually ruin it for myself. I would rather take a movie, book or video game at face value and not spend an exorbitant amount of time critiquing it. Call it intellectual malaise, or as I like to think, a desire to keep things simple, either way when it comes to entertainment, I love it or hate it and don't focus on the shades in-between. However, I can't simply accept Fable, the long anticipated opus from Peter Molyneux, nor can I dismiss it. Perhaps it is the inadequate and inaccurate reviews; it also could be the unprecedented hype surrounding the game. Regardless I have very mixed feelings concerning the game, ones that need to be aired.
This review is going to be divided into two parts; one dealing with the game as it is, and the other focusing on the game and what it was supposed to have been. Both sections will illustrate the positives of the game, the negatives and most everything in between.
What I liked
I rather enjoyed Fable. It sports beautiful graphics, genre appropriate music and lively ambient sounds. The combat is concise, fun, and allows for a variety of successful strategies. One could spend hours just playing the various mini-games, I lost well over ten-thousand gold playing black jack. There is an even a wayward bard, albeit a very untalented one, that pops up from the place to place. The game, on its face, is well worth fifty dollars, especially if you only own an X-Box because you are in dire need when it comes to RPG's and Adventure games, and Fable is a successful hybrid of the two genres.
What I didn't like
The game is rather short. I took my good ole time, spent several hours on courting four different wives, complete most of the quests, and even left the game running while I went out to dinner with the folks. Total elapsed playing time: twelve hours. Doom 3, a first person shooter which are notoriously short, takes longer to beat. If you noticed I didn't use the term complete, I will admit to discover every easter egg, to ascertain the location of every item and to marry another wife or two would take an another five or ten hours. Guess what? That is still a little short, even for an action RPG, especially when a good deal of that time is spent on superfluous content.
The game is way too easy. I understand that it was a purposeful design decision, one that would make the game more accessible but PM and company went a little too far. My eight year old brother would have no difficult completing the lion share of the game. That is unacceptable, especially for a game that is marketed towards adults. In fact it has an M, as in Mature, rating so in theory only adults will be playing it. Give us some credit as we, the adult aged game playing public, do have some modicum of skill. And, even if most of us didn't, Fable is still too easy.
There isn't nearly enough variety in the NPC content. I can live with the dozens of apparent twins, triplets and quadruplets who inhabit the world but every single one of them say the same things, react the same ways and ruin the ambience of the world created by the wonderful graphics and sounds. I spent several hours interacting with various villagers, as my aforementioned polygamous lifestyle is evidence there of. It was enjoyable for a couple hours but soon became burdensome.
The NPC's do react differently based on your renown, attractiveness, scariness and alignment, making one think that there is a huge variety of responses and need to play through several times to see everyone, sadly that isn't the case. You earn renown simply by playing through the main quest, and the occasional side quest, so it grows fairly steadily. Your attractiveness and scariness is determined by your armor type, hair cut, facial hair and tattoos. Since it only takes a few hours to discover most of the armor locations, barber styles, and tattoo options it is very easy to run through the canned reactions to each. Furthermore since the NPC reactions are more cumulative in nature, meaning they react to the combination of hair styles, moustaches, armors, and tattoo styles rather then particulars, it doesn't take long to experience every response.
I didn't mention alignment since it is so ridiculously easy to change alignment from bad to good and vice versa that one, who plays through it trying different things along the way like me, will easily change alignments several times within a few hours and view every NPC response possible. This description actually makes it sound as if there is more to it than there really is. Four or five hours into Fable, playing mostly the linear main quest, provides plenty of time to see virtually every response and reaction. It is very much like a dumb downed version of the Sims. I admire them for attempting to do something different, however; in reality they haven't progresses much farther than the repeated one sentence "The Castle is that way" responses from the NES RPG era. This wouldn't matter if the actual main quest was more fleshed out and took more than eight to ten hours to complete.
Verdict: A conditional Happily Ever After
Is it the best RPG on the X-Box? No, it comes in at a distant second to Knights of the Old Republic. Is it the best action game on X-Box? No, Halo is the undisputed king, at least until its worthy successor becomes available. Is it the best action-adventure RPG hybrid on the X-Box? Yes, of course it is the only game I can think of that fits this description. Nonetheless, it is still a very fun and ambitious game. It very well could be Microsoft's answer to Zelda, which is impressive company to be mentioned with.
What I liked
At first I was blown away by the predictions. Greatest RPG Ever! The must own X-Box title. It will be Peter Molyneux's greatest achievement, the culmination of several decades in the business. The sheer audacity behind the hype was amazing and endearing. I didn't believe most of it, but I wanted to and at times I let myself daydream; a world where real time aging occurred, saplings became massive trees, families were created and torn apart, the chance to adventure with and against other heroes, these fanciful thoughts ran wild through my head. I knew better but even a hardened cynic, a naysayer of Peter Molyneux since the abysmal failure that was Black & White, couldn't help but think what if Project Ego, as it was known early on, succeeded. I couldn't wait to find out.
What I didn't like
PM is a great marketer. He knows what to say, how to say it and, most importantly, when it fails to deliver how to offer something even more enticing to make you forget your disappointment. His hype, which steadily gained momentum over the last four years, guaranteed Fable to be a success. He had done it before, i.e. Dungeon Keeper & Black and White, and will probably do it again. This title will sell well over a million copies, it will most likely become the third or fourth most popular title on the X-Box, so his words, while self-fulfilling, were prophetic in a sense.
It is a must own X-Box title, of course it isn't the must own title but it is close enough. It is one of the best RPG's on the X-Box, though the console is barren of the genre for the most part, so there is some truth to that as well. PM never said that Fable would be his greatest achievement, at least not that I know of, but he did infer it constantly through his adulterated praise of the game during development. And, truth be told it will be known as his most financially successful title, but in terms of sheer game play and innovation Populous is still his crowning achievement. Yet again there is some truth to it.
Verdict: Grimm Fairy Tale
With all that said Fable is still a great disappointment-it isn't groundbreaking, genre defining or revolutionary in anyway. The game is fun but PM promised, no scratch that, he guaranteed something more than simple enjoyment; this game was to be the evolution of RPG’s, the title that ushered in the next era of video games. I knew it couldn't be true, but damn it, he made me believe, at least a little bit and for that I am terribly disappointed. What is by all accounts a fine game is marred by the hype, the half-truths and even outright lies. It would be different if I thought PM and Microsoft truly believed this was going to be the next thing big thing, X-Box's answer to GTA, but by the looks of the finished product and the prolonged development length, I know that they knew it was a stylized promises with no hope for substantive delivery.
Shame on them. And, shame on me for most likely buying Black and White 2 when it comes out. I am, if anything, Peter Molyneux's bitch.
Go to Hell
Thursday, September 16, 2004
By the way, I want to point out an important fact to those of you who feel that calling a strong and opinionated woman a bitch is sexist. I have nothing against strong and opinionated women, at least nothing more than I have against all whores, but I don't like bitches. Is Martha Stewart a strong woman and is she opinionated? Yes to both questions, but she is an even bigger bitch. Teresa Heinz Kerry is a woman, I guess she is strong if you define the term as marrying an extremely wealthy man and then a powerful politician, and she definitely is opinionated. She is also crazy and an obnoxious bitch.
So to be clear, a woman can be strong and opinionated but doesn't preclude her from being a bitch, just as a weak and meek woman can be a bitch as well, however she is smart enough to know her place and be quiet, relying instead on facial gestures and undercooked steak to relay her bitchitude.
Go to Hell
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
My view of network news is forever shattered. Oh wait, no it is not. When yellow journalism is the norm, which it is today, what else do you expect? Dan Rather is, and always has been, a pompous over-hyped talking head. He tells it how he wants it to be, which is fine if you are James Carville or Sean Hannity, but to hide behind the skirt of network journalism is a laughable and a disgrace. He should resign, he is going to be publicly reprimanded, and most likely, suspended.
If being opinionated, dishonest, disingenuous and egocentric is what it takes to make it in the news business; I should seriously look into pursuing it as a career.
Go to Hell
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Auction v. Bob
Today was a good day to auction. The bids were high, the bids were frequent, and the bids were well received. The auction generated nearly $14,000 in sales, which is a new record for us and an extremely high take, by any standard, considering the sale include only three-hundred items. I have reached the top of the mountain, so now it is time to retire. I am hoping the Social Security Administration will take into consideration my wondrous one-time achievement and let me collect on my insubstantial contributions forty odd years early.
I am thinking about buying a cozy little trailer in central Florida and living my golden decades in paradise. Shuffleboard stardom, here I am come.
Go to Hell
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Bethany is a brave little girl. She is cute, spunky and full of life. Her young life was dedicated to surfing. While pursuing her dream a shark bit off her arm. This occurred almost a year ago. I remember the story because first, it involved a man-hungry shark and second the little girl managed to survive. Relatively shortly thereafter, as in within several months, little Bethany took up surfing once again. To me that was more amazing than the actual attack. I questioned what sane parent would let their pre-pubescent daughter surf once again after losing an extremity.
After watching an episode of True Life dedicated to professional surfing, I now know the answer to that very question. A fucking bad parent allows their young armed challenged daughter back into the ocean. Her mother said something to the effect of
"It is her dream...blah blah blah...you never know she might be best...blah blah blah...Jaws, the ultimate oceanic predator, can't stop her, who am I to try?"<>
Ok, that quote isn't entirely accurate but you get the idea. The dumb bitch failed to understand one simple truth; a god damn shark ate her daughter's arm. I know that the odds of a shark attack, even for surfers, are very low. And since she lost one arm, odds are she won't lose another. However, I am more of the mindset of what if you are shark attack rod, like the late Roy Scheider. (I know he isn't physically dead, but other than the occasional Jaws Thirtieth Anniversary interview, what has he done in the last five years?) and can't help but to attract the attentions of the two ton oceanic predators, what then? I understand that little Bethany has another arm and two perfectly healthy legs to offer up, yet I am thinking the minimal payday that 99% of "professional" surf boarders receive isn't worth it. Of course being the world's gimp surfing champion might entail some lucrative endorsements.
Go to Hell
Friday, September 10, 2004
Thursday, September 09, 2004
I am rather fond of Google. It is a cutting edge company filled with brilliant people. But, I must call a spade a spade and you Mr. Google are a bitch. Why? I signed up for Google Adsense in order to generate thousands of dollars in revenue. Ok, actually that is a lie; I signed up as a lark but did not expect to get turned down. Apparently my site contains "sensitive content" which Google does not want to be associated with.
This is the company that made their recent fortune largely from search engine technology. Guess what millions of people look up on Google everyday- Porn and I mean hardcore butt-licking midget peeing porn. Anyone who uses the internet understands that this is a given and does not hold Google responsible. They are simply facilitating an expeditious service that makes navigating the net all the more easier. However, lets be frank for a moment, Google has corrupted untold millions by helping them discover the world of Swedish animal bukkake sites. Their multi-billion dollar IPO is due in large part to sexual perversity. Yet, my little pearl of online wisdom, which occasionally does deal with risqué subjects, isn't acceptable.
You know what I think- they are a bunch of Neo-Nazi's who are only concerned with oppressing the modern day equivalent of the Jews, Bob.
I would boycott but gmail is such a nifty service and you never know when the itch to search for Monkey on Midget porn might arise.
Go to Hell
P.S. ihateyou has been defined.
1980- Year of my birth and ascendancy of the great RR.
1981- Moved to the sunshine state.
1984- I left paradise and returned to Ohio. Thanks mom and dad.
1985- Beat up the school bully with several friends. He went to the hospital and the police interviewed me at home. My friends sold me out and blamed me for everything. I blamed them for everything. Thankfully the bully in question was poor and stupid so the authorities let the matter drop.
1986- My first girlfriend and kiss. The former wouldn't occur again for fifteen years, the latter only took twelve years and hours of incessant begging to happen again.
1987- Killed a small Asian woman for looking at me too long. Still regret not stealing her purse.
1989- First memorable erection
1994- First meaningful crush. I think she became a lesbian.
1995- Second through tenth meaningful crushes. RD still holds a special place in my heart even if she tormented me in both English and Spanish. Realized that typing love letters and giving potted flowers as gifts is a bad idea. Actually I didn't realize that for another eight years.
1996- Passed the DMV exam on my second try. Still can't backup into a parking place.
1997- Masturbated 10 times in one day. It is still my proudest moment.
1998- Graduated high school and vowed to lose virginity. Also started college
1999- Realized my vow isn't going to happen for a very long time. Joined SAE and paid a lot of money to hang out with alcoholics, Jews and a farmer from Vermont.
2000- Drop out of school and come to realization that all women are whores. Returned to school six months later. Also known as the Year of the Whore. (Damn you Jenna for blowing Norman. Feminist my ass, whore is more like it.)
2001-Make good on my vow from three years previous and managed to alienate the lucky girl in such a way that she doesn't acknowledge the act or my existence to this very day. She is happily married now. Pulled a sapling out of the ground.
2002- Had sex with another girl many, many times and try to make up for lost time. Graduated from college. Realized that I have a small penis when girlfriend says in a complimentary tone "you feel big tonight." Committed perjury in a trial centering on Treeicide which became known as Granville's Most Notorious Case in the new century.
2003- Worked for six and half weeks (a new personal best) Also had sex once or twice with another girl. She wanted to be European and was too hairy for my tastes. Due to these encounters my hatred for France grew exponentially.
2004- Tipped the scales at 275lbs and realized I am officially the fattest person I know. Sadly am very proud of that fact.
Go to Hell
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Paris Hilton is evidence of that fact.
Why in high hell does this pretentious little twat get a book deal? She is a dirty, dirty whore and I have the forty-five minute video to prove it. Hey, look at me. I suck good dick and am able to act like a complete ass on Fox television. My daddy is very successful and one day, when he dies from shame, I will inherit millions of dollars. Of course all that money and "fame" cannot change one undeniable truth; I am stupid bitch. My mantra, much like my Vietnamese sisters, is “Five Dollah... Sucky lonnng time."
Go to Hell
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Tuesday.
Did you know that Tuesday originates from the Norse God of War, Tir? I bet you didn't. Also, the counterpart on the Roman calendar was Martis, the day of Mars, who was the Roman God of War.
Next time you are feeling ungrateful and complain that it is "only Tuesday" beware; Tir or Mars may very well be listening and the Gods of War are notorious for disemboweling unbelievers.
Go to Hell
Last night, while thinking about new ways to stimulate my imaginary clitoris, I came to a stunning revelation. I forget about soon after when envisioning the various things I would do with my imaginary clitoris, but that is of no matter because I have decided to do something very important. Bob plans on voting in the upcoming Presidential election.
The problem is I have no idea how one goes about registering to vote, or to be exact where one registers to vote. I could look it up on the source of all knowledge or simply call the city and ask but where is the fun in that (Plus that requires a bit of effort on my part. I only expend energy on research when it involves clitoral piercing or invasions from alternate dimensions by giant arachnids).
Instead, I, Mr. Robert Kyle Wilson, request that you, the masses who shower me with adulation, share this information. And please do remember that I am extremely lazy so please only offer the simplest and most pain-free registering options.
Go to Hell
Vote SMG & EC 2008
Monday, September 06, 2004
Sunday, September 05, 2004
The things I enjoy most in life: Sex, masturbation, food, drink, masturbation and defecation. I don't get much of first; I get plenty of the rest but can rarely take time to truly savor the last. You see I thoroughly enjoy a good shit. The clearing of the bowels is often the highlight of my day. However; I am usually not able to sit back and live, or grunt, in the moment. If only I could spend all day on the porcelain throne but that is but a fleeting dream. Even I, the most slothful of creatures, am forced into daily activity, be it eating a whooper, looking up Jenna Jameson movies or simply watching television. Whatever the cause, my poopie time is most definitely finite. I can live with that because it gives me something to look forward to and truly what is life without hope? Some hope for peace, others for prosperity, I hope for a good shit. Therefore I am able to live with the 3-5 times a day I release the brown colored happiness. All in all an hour a day on the seat is nothing to sneeze or, hold your nose, at.
My problem and great concern is that I am unable, no matter how hard I try, to remember my glorious triumphant, each dump blends into another with little to distinguish one from another except for the occasional glimpse of red or green color.
I find it strange that I am unable to remember my most memorable shits. I can't even remember the first time I went potty, but that is excusable since I was but an infant at the time. Yet, even when I was cognizant of my surroundings and when my childhood memories begin I, Bob, can't remember ever taking a shit. Of course I must have taken many but it is odd that none stand out from those days of yesteryear, nor do any bouts of poop come to mind when thinking of last week. I know that the act is extremely pleasurable but it is fleeting feeling, one that last only mere minutes and leaves longing for hours on end.
I remember clearly the first time I played with Lil Bubba, I was thinking of my fourth grade teacher at the time as she was handcuffed to the bed inviting me to ravage her Olive Oyl like body. It still brings a smile to my face fifteen years later. I still recall that lonely summer day my junior year when I gently caressed my manhood some ten times in a twenty-four hour period. And, finally I can remember a handful of times when my self-love eclipsed all belief, managing to make my sexual encounters look frivolous by comparison.
I remember fondly when I lost my virginity. The day when my flower was plucked, I know the hour, the day, the month and the year. It was a wondrous five minutes of extreme ecstasy & unbelievable pleasure, at least for me; she just kept asking if it was over yet. Of course terrorists attacked us a couple days later on September 11th, 2001 making it much easier for me to remember. And, several of my collegiate friends pointed out that it was in fact my fault that the terrorists attacked because the loss of my virginity harkened the end of times. Having ones first sexual encountered described as a harbinger of the apocalypse does tend to make it stand out. I digress but perhaps in my self-effacing memories the truth can be found. I have nothing to relate my shit to. There is no face, double digit number, or worldwide terrorist attack to give my defecation perspective.
In fact the only poop-related memory I have has to do with a wet fart gone awry in my hand and how I wiped it off on a washrag, which I promptly placed atop the dirty clothes bind. Thankfully my mother found it soon afterward and showed every one of my friends who visited over the next week.
I need to start a turd log. It would give a tangible record of my most undervalued of acts and provide a historical account for those shit seekers whom come after me. I could describe the texture, smell, color and, on occasion, the taste of my excretions. Then again, maybe not; this site is testimony enough to how fucked up I am, there is little need for any more evidence.
Go to Hell
Saturday, September 04, 2004
A buddy of mine invited me over to shoot the shit and watch some movies. I opted to not go over; instead I decided to clean the hamster cages. It seemed like a good idea at the time because Sam & Frodo were starting to develop quite an odor, the stench was very reminiscent to that of a toppled porta-potty. A cleaning was in order. Sometimes I do things without thinking about the consequences. I have torn sinks out of walls, assaulted my fair share of urinals, shoved one ton dumpsters down a hill, sucked on the breast of a four hundred pound woman and even once, yes just once, let a young lady stick her finger up my butt and wiggle it around and around and around. Save for the last example, which I enjoyed considerably (the poop I had shortly afterwards was magnificent) I came to regret each instance and countless other poor decisions as well. I thought Bob had learned better, to know when enough was enough, and most definitely when to not act like a complete and utter ass.
I was wrong.
I took Sam out of his cage and as I was placing him his hamster ball, he looked deeply into my eyes as if to say; your eyes hold endless mysteries, my lord, please clean my odorous abode and make it fit for a servant of the divine. I could not deny such a request, even if it was made only with his eyes, so I vowed to wipe away the feces, urine and stale food, making his temple to me, his God, worthy once more. My first mistake was to clean the cage in the kitchen sink. Of course I emptied out all the loose bedding, food and dry shit but there still remained a considerable amount of grime. Actually grime isn't terribly accurate; what remained was a gelatin mass of shit, piss, food, hair and wood chips. I truly expected the unholy mass to demonstrate some sort of mobility because it looked, and most definitely smelt, like something driven out of the bowels of hell by the Devil himself. Thankfully, there was no discernable movement, so I delved into the task at hand. I soaked the molded plastic in a soapy bath and was overjoyed to feel the mass come loose and slip away. If only Lovecraft knew that it only took soap, warm water, and elbow grease to overcome that which bumps the night. Of course he knew all too well and soon, to my horror, so would I.
After drying the cage and placing fresh bedding within it; I gently took Sam from the ball and placed him within the Temple of Bob. He shot me a strange glance, one filled with pity and shame. I was taken aback, at first, and then became quite irate. How dare this furry infidel look upon his God within any short of admiration and fear in his heart? Yet, something about his look unnerved me, it actually terrified me. I quelled these thoughts for what sort of hamster God would I be if I let the furry little beasts see indecision and fear in my eyes. After ensuring Sam was comfortable within my shrine, I went back to the sink in order to tidy things up. Something stirred within the drain, at first I thought a few pieces of bedding had wedged themselves inside, which would easily be taken care of with a couple jabs of a fork. It was not stray wood chips in the drain, or at least not wood chips alone, it was, in fact, the gelatin mass and it had somehow found a way to grow. What would I do? What could I do? Madness threatened to overwhelm me until a strange clicking broke the spell. Sam was chewing on his cage in such way as if to say "Awake my Lord or the beast will consume you." I threw caution to the wind, scooped up the throbbing mass and placed it in the garbage. I had won. Or, had I?
Frodo's cage came next and it appeared to be no big thing. Even after discovering a similar collusion of hamster refuse to Sam's within the plastic walls, I knew no fear. Was I not the same man, no, God, who had slain a similar beast minutes before. I had nothing to fear and even decided to tempt fate itself and opted to not clean out the cage before washing it down. I left all the bedding inside and threw it in the bathtub. I decided the easiest, and most fitting, way to cleanse the cage was with a cascade of water. I turned the faucet up to the highest setting, took a step back and let the water do its work. I mentioned earlier about poor decision making skills and this was destined to be yet another example.
Ehhh......and it smells even worse.
It only took forty minutes, two rolls of paper towels, and swallowing my own bile to clean up the mess. Lovecraft was right; there was no way to fight the madness.
Go to Hell
Friday, September 03, 2004
(As Reported in the Newark Advocate)
Park Place Antiques & Collectibles probably will close for business Friday, said store manager Robert Wilson.
Kerry's stop is good for downtown as a whole, Wilson said. And though it won't help the business attract customers Friday, closing for the day won't hurt too much, he said.
"I don't see a lot of people coming in buying antiques during a presidential rally," he said. "Fiscally, it's not going to help us, but it's not going to break us either."
(What the Advocate reporter omitted)
"John Kerry is a donkey ball eating bitch." "Sarah Michelle Gellar For President in 2008." "By the way you have a pretty mouth for a boy."
Go to Hell
Thursday, September 02, 2004
The charges against Kobe Bryant were dropped without prejudice. Kobe said I am sorry for sticking my dick up your ass and everyone is happy, except the citizens of Eagle, Colorado who were troubled to learn that the prosecutor and judge in this case, both elected officials, are functionally retarded.
Drinking, driving and decapation- Oh My.
Gay Republicans? Fact, fiction, or undeniable proof that God has a sense of humor.
Christ compels you.
Go to Hell
(I actually put effort in today's post, too bad it doesn't show. )