You should give thanks for reading this entry

The turkey has been cooked, digested and defecated by this point, though not necessarily in that order. Thanksgiving is supposed to be about giving thanks for what we have; in reality it is a day dedicated to overeating and sitting on ones ass--you would think this would qualify as a my favorite holiday, but the truth is that every day is Thanksgiving for Bob.

My XBox 360 business endeavor looks to be a winner. I will hopefully make between $700.00 and $1000.00 profit, which is more than I ever made at work.* To think I was able to make hundreds of dollars simply by sitting on my ass for several hours, then later gouging the impatient consumer on EBay. Capitalism sure is grand.

Go To Hell

*My tax return from last year listed my income as $300.00. I am poor white trash with an emphasis on white--if only my racial superiority was enough to pay the bills...Ok, I am kidding, there are millions of white people who make a living simply from being born into a specific ethnicity, they are called Jews.

A person with an antisocial personality disorder, manifested in aggressive, perverted, criminal, or amoral behavior without empathy or remorse.

Dear MTV,

You have done it again. The recent season of The Real World, while not necessarily the best, continues to demonstrate your dedication to high quality television--Fights, sex, more fights, crying, bitching, lying, incarceration and hit-a-bitch-just-miss to top it all off.

Between you and me, where do you find all of these psychopaths?


Go To Hell

Artificial Shortages Are Fun.

Don't miss out on the XBox 360. It will only be available for the next week; afterwards the system will never be sold again. The schematics are scheduled to be locked in a time capsule which is being launched into space. So, again, buy it now or not at all.

By the way, I understand the desire to go to a store twelve hours before a product is actually going on sale; however, I draw the line at waiting for twelve hours in 30 degree weather with a high chance for flurries and sleet. Maybe it is just me, but paying a couple extra hundred dollars is far preferable to FUCKING DYING FROM PNEMONIA. What the hell is wrong with people? Of course I waited for six hours at Wal-Mart; then again, I waited inside a temperature controlled store, was seated in a chair and spent the time playing card games with a couple friends. I might be a loser, yet let it never be said that I am a total fuck-wit.

Go To Hell

But I am a man.

I have a canker sore; it is located on the underside of my tongue. Bob has never before been blessed with a mouth ulcer, though I do find it preferable to the herpes simplex virus. Medical science is unable to adequately explain the "why me and not you, bitch" of canker sores. However it is accepted science that women are more likely to experience acid-eating-me-from-the-inside-out pleasure, especially during their menstrual cycles.

Recently, as in yesterday during a poker game, I commented that my ass is much like a vagina: both are hairy, dark, moist and inviting to large black males; furthermore, I recently noticed splashes of red in my stool--originally thought to be the late stages of stomach cancer--that could very well be the tell-tale signs of shedding my endometrial lining. Therefore it is my half-baked conclusion that the sore-oh-canker, presently dissolving the lower portion of my tongue, is succinctly explained in the following text:

And if a woman have an issue, and her issue in her flesh be blood, she shall be
put apart seven days: and whosoever toucheth her shall be unclean until the even
(Leviticus 15:19)

Go To Hell

Jesus Sort Of Likes Halo 2

This is the only place for video game reviews. Take a look at the highest rated game of all time--it is a must buy. Just remember: God is good and Buddhism isn't so peachy keen (see the conclusion of the review.)

Go To Hell

Three Events United Only By My Fat Ass

I just finished eating an entire 16" pepperoni and mushroom pizza; shortly thereafter I topped it off my midnight hour meal with a quart of egg nog. The stomach has begun it's final countdown sequence, total and utter destruction is imminent. Of course, I can at least find consolation in the knowledge that my valve will never truly be closed again, instead it will be irrevocably blown out by the building methane pressure.

Yesterday, I received an email solicitation from an online brokerage house. The message was sent to my gmail account, which is generally pretty good about filtering out spam and greetings of a definite solicitous nature. However, I am glad the message made it through, not because I am interested in a loan--or even remotely qualified to receive one, what really caught me eye was to whom the message was sent: my ex-girlfriend.

My gmail account is a little over a year old, I last dated a girl nearly three years ago; this begs the question, why in the fuck would I receive a message addressed to my ex. She doesn't know about the email address, it isn't publicly listed as far as I can tell; furthermore, she isn't one to sign up for spam and send it my way--that is actually something I am more apt to (actively) do. The only reasonable deduction is that I signed up for a service from the brokerage using my ex-girlfriend's name. I don't recall doing this, though it isn't totally out the question. I still think of her and find myself fondly remembering our relationship, especially the parts involving nudity and spanking. Perhaps I just wanted a message from her, so I decided to have messages sent for her, which is sort of the same thing...I guess. What I am really trying to say is that I am potentially a really pathetic fuck, thank God for selective memory.


Another important event of note: I attempted to paint the interior of my father's soon-to-be-finished house. I was on my feet for approximately five hours, this time was spent painting the corners in several rooms and sticking my head--in particular my hair--in still fresh paint at every turn. Dad felt it necessary to reapply every single stroke, usually such behavior results in a terse exchange prompted on my part involving colorful language, oaths of vengeance and promises to move far way. Today I just let it slide, my feet fat feet hurt too much. You know it says something when the soles of your feet become fat. One would think such a self-realization would result in a desire to change, I chose to say the course and eat large pizza by my lonesome.

Go to Hell

I am declaring a fatwa: Death to Alltel.

I accept that local utility monopolies don't give two shits about the consumer, it is literally their way or the anal reaming, or As Helen Keller once grunted, "Life is not fair." So I am fairly tolerant when comes to be mistreated by public utilities. However, at some point even tolerance must give way to absolute and irrevocable hate. My phone bill included a hidden charge: it appeared I was receiving a voice mail service from a third party company which resulted in $15.00 charge. I had no recollection of authorizing a charge that all but doubled my bill, especially not from a third party. I called Alltel and spoke to a very helpful young cunt. She stated that I must have signed up for an account, and even if I hadn't, it was my problem to solve. Quote, "Sir, there is nothing I can do. You have to call the company because you authorized the charges." My reply, "No, you authorized the charges without my knowledge and consent. The only phone service I would pay $15.00 would be phone sex, though generally it only takes me two minutes to reach fruition, which runs only six or seven bucks." I hung up shortly thereafter.

I called the mysterious voice mail provider and reached a member of their customer service department. The representative was very friendly and sounded quite helpful, sadly she didn't speak English so good. Since I am now inured to American companies using foreign customer service departments, I attempted to speak alienese. Fifteen minutes and several awkward pauses later, she confirmed that I didn't have an account. An unknown phone-a-whore (or was that whore-a-phone) had used my phone number and signed up for their voice mail service. The rep shared the perpetuator's name and verified that I didn't know her. I asked if my personal information was given, the rep stated that the only information they had on file was her name and my phone number. Joy swelled within my heart, my cheese coated arteries felt almost cleared. The rep even offered to send me an email documenting our exchange and stating a full refund would be given. The following is a verbatim reproduction of the last minute of our conversation.

Bob: My email address is p, as in paul, p a c at alltel--a l l t e l--period net.

CSR: Your email address is pasinpaulpac at alltel a l l t e l period net.

Bob: No, that isn't quite it. The address is p p a c @ a l l t e l dot net.

CSR: Your email address is d d a c @ a b b t e l d o t net.

Bob: Sure.......close enough.

I called Alltel back and stated the company had agreed to remove the charges. The new representative, who almost seemed to care, said that was great. I asked her if it was possible to prevent third party authorizations from appearing on my account. She said that any such authorization required the last four digits of my social security number. After a brief pause, I explained that the company, who her company had apparently illegally given authorization to, had no personal information from or about me; they simply billed my telephone number. Her oh so wise and enlightening reply, "Oh..." Oh is exactly what I was thinking, the stupid bitch.

Go To Hell

Know when to fold'em.

Texas Hold'em is hard. The game has entirely too many human variables--i.e. is he bluffing, does she have a set, and the thought most frequenting my mind, I am hungry. Also, I have a complete inability to calculate hand permutations; math is for losers with future prospects. Friday night I went against my better judgment and attempted to play in game with a few friends. Nine people were involved and forty-five dollars was at stake. My goal was to not finish in last place, like my mom always said about competition: you will probably always be a loser, but at least you can strive to not be a total bitch.

The game consisted of two women, six guys and one homosexual. I started off slow, my strategy was to bide my time until I managed pocket aces, apparently that wasn't a reasonable idea. A half hour passed and nary an ace had come my way. Inspiration, in the form of pocket kings, struck. It was now or never, my time was literally in hand.

I started off strong; I raised five-hundred chips and saw the flop. The highest card showing was a ten, three suits were represented and a straight draw was a fanciful feat. I raised another five-hundred chips, only three people remained and I had a two thousand chips left. The next card was a five, which matched the other five on the board; I figured no one was chasing a trio of fives and decided to raise the bet one-thousand chips. My two opponents, who happened to be married, were still very much game. Fear boiled in my gut, sweat drenched my unibrow; however, I was pot committed, reason no longer played a part in the hand. The next card was a deuce, it was lonesome on the table, so I knew my Kings were high pair and straight or flush was impossible. Three fives would beat me, two pairs could always happened, so I decided to raise five-hundred more chips and let logic be damned. The married duo called my bet and we all showed our hands. The wife had a five, the husband wouldn't show, I had two kings and nothing else to show; my prayer to Che Kung had went unheard.

Even with fewer than five hundred chips, I managed to stay in play for over an hour; I rebuilt my chip stack, lost it once again and eventually ended up sixth. I accomplished all of this without looking one person in the face. Reading people is difficult and I had trouble enough deducing when to bet. Next time I am going to stare into the eyes, gaze into the portals of their souls; who knows, I might just manage fifth place.

Oh, and least you feel too sorry for me, I was only out five dollars and was able to eat an entire pizza, she who perpetuated three fives has cheese and pepperoni connections galore. All in all, it was a good night’s work, though it ended up causing a long morning on the porcelain throne.


Go To Hell

Another reason to stay in bed

I came into work fairly late. It seems that fourteen hours of sleep just doesn't do it for me. At approximately 10:00 am, I heard a knocking at my door. I acknowledged it for a moment then drifted off to slumber. An hour later, due more to a lack of gastral constraint than anything else, I woke up and called mom at the shop. She seemed genuinely upset, I feared the worst: she had run out of cigarettes. Low and behold something much worse had happened, mom shared the following harrowing story: a crazed auction consignor, actually the boyfriend of said consignor, stormed into the store and threatened my mother and father. He bellowed, "I will get even...trust me...I will get even. You will regret fucking me out of money." This was troubling but my sleep-addled senses failed to recognize the true horror, this crazy fucker knew where we--in particular me--lived. What if he was the one knocking at my door? Also, it bears mentioning that I am paranoid about home assassination in general, so this turn of events only fed my usually unreasonable fears.

I showered with the curtain open, water spilled all over the floor. My hair remained unwashed; I couldn't risk closing my eyes, not even for a single second. So, yea, I overreacted a bit. Thus far the only thing I knew was that an unknown auction consignor was extremely dissatisfied with their check and decided to vocalize their displeasure. Cursing does not necessarily mean homicide. I put on my brave face and drove to the store.

Let it be said that paranoia has some benefits, most notably being the fact that once in a while it turns out to be justified. My mom was nearly in tears, I could hear the terror in her voice--this from a woman who fought men in bars and thought her labor pains were a mild bout of gas, she is/or-at-least-was one tough bitch. The police were taking her statement when I being to quiz my father as to what happened. He said that a crazed middle-aged man, who happened to be sporting a mohawk, threatened each of them and stood within an inch of his face. It wasn't exactly the vague threats that scared them--yes, even my dad was scared--instead it was his deranged behavior and inability to stop shaking. Complicating matters further was his reason for being insanely angry: I auctioned off an item two months ago, it brought several hundred dollars, his girlfriend--the actual consignor--expressed disappointment in the amount but didn't seem overly upset after we explained that several dozen people inspected and were present at the sale, it brought fair market value. We haven't heard anything since, at least not until earlier today. So he was spouting off threats and shaking like Michael J. Fox over something that happened to be settled two months prior. He claimed the item in question was worth $1,400.00, which was unsubstanited conjecture, or as I like to call it--BULLSHIT. The piece did sell cheaper than expected, I know the actual buyer and he eventually sold it for $700.00 on EBay, however that is fairly common in an absolute auction; some items bring less while others bring more, it is the nature of the beast. My father stated he tried to reason with him but it was to no avail, in order to prevent further escalation and keep my sixty-five year old father out of a physical altercation, she called the police.

Later, after the police had left, my mom shared some interesting tid-bits about the man; she had been close friends with his sister and knew of him, which I later remarked would have been helpful to know as we wouldn't have dealt with the crazy bastard or his girlfriend. One former friend affectionately referred to him as "Charlie Manson," another associate had told mom a story involving her sons and "Charlie" chasing them down with a wooden chair, apparently he wanted to test how many headshots it took to get to the center of the cranium. Another neat factoid about Charlie: he had once kicked a man to death but escaped jail time by allowing his older brother, who had blacked out, to take the fall--this story came directly from his sister who happened to witness his human soccer hijinks.

My dad was actually caring a loaded pistol in the store, which didn't alleviate my fears; all I could picture was him shooting off his big toe or accidentally winging me as he mistook the pistol for his cell phone. I convinced him that it was unwise to carry a loaded weapon, especially while operating a motor vehicle. I sort of lied about our local conceal and carry gun laws, though I am sure the NRA wouldn't mind, not this one time.

Anyway, long story short: It appears that a homicidal lunatic is angry with my family, most likely this includes me since I actually auctioned the item in question; furthermore, I am probably going to be murdered in my sleep, assuming I ever rest again. Who knew that auctioning antiques could be so dangerous? I bet they don't share stories like this on the Antiques Road Show.

Go To Hell

Park Place Antiques Theater

Presents: The case for femicide

Woman: Can I see that pin.

Me: This pin?

Woman: No, not that one. I want the one shaped like butterfly.

Me: Ok, here you go.

Woman: Could you take less? (The pin's price: $2.00)

Me: I can't really discount items below $10.00.

Woman: Well...I don't want it then. How about I give you $1.00 for it.

Me: I thought you didn't want it.

Woman: I don't want it at $2.00, though I will definitely take it at $1.00.

Me: It costs $2.00. If you buy more costume jewelry, I would consider giving a discount on the total sale.

Woman: Well...I don't want it then. Can I see the bar pin?

Woman's Friend: Leave the poor boy alone. He doesn't want to bother with us.

Woman: What? He doesn't have anything better to do. We are the highlight of his day.

I contemplated bludgeoning her fat head in-- the problem was that I couldn't find a construct large enough for the task. In lieu of criminal assault, I opted to help the insipid bitch. She spent over thirty minutes looking over costume jewelry, none of which was priced over $3.00. Eventually she-who-justifies-assisted-homicide walked out with $5.00 in merchandise, her purchase consisted of two pins, one ring and a not so small part of my dignity.

Go To Hell

Two posts in one day. Wow, I must be really bored.

I am a digital voyeur. Trust me the title sounds a lot more interesting than it really is. I don't place cameras in women's restrooms, I don't peek through windows at the neighbor's teenage daughter, if only my disorder was so visually fulfilling. Real voyeurs (Did I just write "real voyeurs," it is a sad day when you can't even claim the title social deviant) watch actual life being lived, I get my kicks off reading what others write about life. I don't like watching sports, but I am all for reading sports columns. Bedding a woman is too much effort, rather I read about it on erotic stories websites (at the very least, I am still a socially recognized pervert.) Interacting with friends and family takes away from my me time, instead I opt to read online blogs and journals. I like to call it the vicarious life.

My high speed connection was terminated a couple months back; this has severely limited my voyeuristic opportunities. Thank God for the newspaper, cable news and imaginary friends, most notably Richard Irksome and Bethany Gonealltheway. Though, I am seriously considering leaving my tin-foil roof abode and venturing out into the wilds that is Newark. I will need to start slowly, perhaps a trip to Wal-Mart is in order.

Simply put, I need to get a life and/or laid--of course, I am assuming one doesn't precipitate the other.


Go to Hell

This rambling mass of text contains a ton of errors and isn't worth reading--Guaranteed!

A lot has happened in the world since my last post, here is a rundown of the relevant events: Bush created a hurricane that only targeted poor black folk, which is even more extraordinary when you consider that Bush was the cause of all black poverty in the first place; I gained another fifteen pounds and took one more step towards premature death caused by heart disease; Chicago won a World Series Championship, of course it was by the other Chicago team, the White Sox, and no one gives two shits about them; my little brother made a traveling basketball All-Star team, in nine years he has already eclipsed the sum total of all my athletic achievements--I feel like Danny DeVito in Twins; USC defeated Notre Dame, which actually lead to Charlie Weiss being offered and subsequently signing a ten-year contract, you don't have to win the big game but it does help to keep it close, words to live by, TY; George W. nominated a woman to the Supreme Court, she was instantly referred to as unqualified and stupid by Republican pundits, most notably Ann Coulter, this proves that even vivacious blonde mega-minds can't overcome the absolute common denominator in all women...cattiness/being-a-colossal-bitch-towards-all-other-women; after Harriet gracefully--much to her credit, all things considered--withdrew, Bush nominated a qualified and well versed Supreme Court nominee, too bad he is a white male; father started building a new home and it looks to be finished by Thanksgiving, too bad I am not allowed to live there, he mentioned something about no unemployed twenty-something allowed; I took the LSAT and did better than the great majority of people, sadly I didn't do nearly well enough, though with my stellar GPA my list of potential law schools numbered between 0 and 1; and finally, the Muslims decided to take over France in a bloody revolution--who says being poor, uneducated and breed to hate doesn't result in anything good, then again they are rebelling against France which is akin to revolting against a paper bag, albeit one containing fine wine, cheese and a pack of cigarettes. (this is truly painful to read, isn't it? Somewhere my middle-grade English teacher, Mrs. Kennedy, is slowly shaking her size-too-small head.)


Anyway, enough about pertinent world events, instead I wanted to share a couple good reads, both being in genres that you probably don't read exhaustively, unless you count the walking literary abortion Stephen King and that daft whore who writes about a thick-rimmed girl named Harry. Each is part of a larger trilogy, which is to their detriment, but they manage to be entertaining enough to overcome the curse that is the modern-day obsession with series--remember when a stand-alone book or movie was commonplace, now everything is created with a series in mind, though their are usually barely enough ideas to fill one project, more less three. I digress; the point is read the following books because they are enjoyable and most likely much different than your usual selections.

The first book, Writ in Blood: Serenity Falls 1, is a horror novel, though it isn't particularly terrifying or demented--the two staples of modern Horror. Don't expect heavy-handed & adjective-laden prose (see Stephen King if that is your cup of piss) or demented imagery (Bentley Little and Jack Ketchum are the talent-challenged, albeit enjoyable, hacks you seek); instead, it is one part supernatural detective story and two parts historical narrative concerning a town that burned witches, murdered carneys & made unknowing deals with the devil.

It was originally published as a single novel encompassing 700+ pages, which was only available in a severely limited fashion, a couple years later it was expanded and turned into a trilogy. I never read the stand-alone novel, though I would bet that great majority of the first book didn't require much clarification or expansion. Like I mentioned earlier, it doesn't work so well as a trilogy, but as a stand-alone book it is an enjoyable and fast-moving read. If you have the free time, the final two books are not completely devoid of value, they are just relatively, for lack of a better explicative, shitty by comparison.


My second recommendation, Whisper of Waves, is a fantasy novel published by Wizard's of the Coast. If you know anything about fantasy or geekdom in general, you understand that this is the company that publishes Dungeons & Dragons material, this includes tie-in fiction novels, which this is, at least ostensibly, an example of. Generally, these types of novels require a cursory understanding of D&D and some background in the actual fantasy world they take place; this work is no different, however, one would require ignorance of all fantasy archetypes--which is hard to find in today's world dominated by Lord of the Rings & Sherry Potter--to have trouble following this book. Put simply: the story takes place in a world where magic can alter the very fabric of reality; where dragons roam the skies and sometimes even the don the shape of man; dwarves work as shipbuilders, not as hand-maidens to Snow White; a universe where anything is possible, especially when it's convenient as a literary device. There, you are now prepared to read the book.

The actual novel is fascinating story, where every major character is morally ambiguous, this is not a story about defeating an evil wizard, or good conquering evil in any real sense; it is the story of a engineering genius who seeks to build a canal, even though it is apparently impossible, due largely to political interests. This character could just as easily be the protagonist in an Ayn Rand novel, or as an example of Nietzsche's Übermensch. Obviously, this novel is not a thought out philosophical dissertation, but it does contain quite a few pages of intellectual discourse and debate--which is exceedingly rare in any fantasy novel, especially one that comes in well under 400 pages. Also, the interactions of the major characters, each falling more into the category of anti-hero than either hero or villain, is entertaining, thought-provoking and perversely endearing.

Sadly, this book serves as a set-up for the next two in the series, it does not come to any sort of reasonable fruition, which means if you enjoy the story, it then becomes necessary to read the final two stories. And, since thee next two books won't be out for a couple years, you are in for quite a wait. Bearing all this mind, not to mention the tendency for the quality of trilogy to be uneven, I still heartily recommend this book. Remember, it never hurts to get in touch with your inner nerd, assuming you do so in private and never mention it to anyone else.

Go to Hell

Duh, doh, chocolate is like an enzyme enhanced mouse

Earlier tonight, I watched Forrest Gump. It made me cry and reaffirmed itself as one of the greatest motion pictures ever, at least in my mind's eye. Again, I am not sure why. I could have a fetish for retarded protagonists, really, would that be too suprising? It is a much better line of rationale than the alternative: I am a bit retarded, therefore I have a strong inkling for those like me, especially those who still manage to live grandiose lives.

Mommy always did call me a retarded fat-ass, and mommy does know best.

gth

Retarded People Have Feelings Too

It is 6:06 am and I am crying between bouts of laughter. I just finished Flowers for Algernon, and, to say the least, it had quite an impact on little ole me. It isn't the best book ever written, nor would I qualify it as a personal favorite, but for whatever reason, it moved me like no other book. In the last year I have read Siddhartha, Confederacy of Dunces and Flowers for Algernon, each reaching me in such a personal way like no other books before. I have read well over a thousand novels, countless short stories and a few too many novellas, yet these three works stand out to me, not because of genius, but because they are applicable to me the person, not bob the disinterested reader.

Siddhartha spoke to me on a spiritual level, like Flowers for Algernon, it stirred great emotion within my being; I felt better for reading it, as if the world finally made sense if only for 150 pages. Confederacy of Dunces could well have been my life story, it was a character study of who I am and most likely will become--thankfully, I am equipped with a keen sense of humor, especially in reference to myself, otherwise it would have eclipsed Charlotte's Web as the most depressive read of my life.

Flowers for Algernon is different from the other two: the book resonated with me, the story spoke to me, the words beckoned me, but I don't know why. With the exception of much of this blog and my affinity for Sailor Moon, I am not what one would call mentally retarded, and still keeping in mind I write this blog and have a Sailor Moon doll, I am not genius, either. I have nothing in common with Charlie Gordon; his trial and tribulations are not my own, his cross is not one I have had to bear. Yet upon reading this story I found myself empathizing with the unknown, crying for the alien spectrum found between retard and genius and back again. In other words, I am at a total loss.

I could barely finish the remaining journal entries; they hurt to read. Maybe it had to do with his longing for love, which is, after all, a universal fallacy, something found throughout the human condition. The thing is, I can't say if that is it, leaving me to believe that isn't it. I have no tangible reason to be touched by Keyes work, I don't know retarded people--unless you count Democrats--and I am not averse to mocking someone for being a dullard, just as I am apt to mock someone for having the audacity of knowing more than I do, therefore I am an equal opportunity intellectual elitist. I just don't know the why about my feeling but the how is readily apparent, e.g. my tears and giggling bordering on the insane.

Maybe mom is right, I am just a little bitch.

gth

When Critics Attack

I am slowly developing quite the affinity for Roger Ebert. He might be a pompous ass, but the man can, at times, be fucking hilarious. Read the last paragraph--OWNZD.

gth

Death by zerg rush

My uncle's cousin-in-law's father's brother died in Korea for this.

gth

Touched

God, in the form of a discarded box of plastic forks, spoke to me. The Almighty wasn't pleased. Apparently, much to his chagrin—and yes, God is capable of both chaing and grinning, mankind has failed to live up to his expectations. The following is an excerpt from that conversation. The entirety of our exchange is too much for humanity to grasp, it would ruin us all, so here is the cliff notes version.

Midgetry, Faggotry and Muscular Dystrophy are evil; Adultery, Symmetry and Mimicry are not so bad.

Sex before marriage is often awkard, uncomfortable and painful; sex during marriage is much worse.

Men are superior to woman in every way save for one: women have multiple orgasms--God called this an even trade.

Aliens are amongst us, they all are referred to as Canadians.

Menstruation is unnatural; your 9th grade health teacher is a fucking liar.

Love is dead, your parents killed it.

Sometimes it isn't the fight in the dog; it is the year, make and model of the car he is driving.

Penguins are the spawn of Satan; they should be cooked in their own innards and sold to the Slavic people as New Spam.

Sarah Michelle Gellar kissing Selma Blair is the single greatest moment in the history of creation--this is the only absolute, irrevocable truth besides the existence of God.

All peoples less than 4'10" are non-persons fit only to make chocolate and perform in the circus. Children under the age of 15 are exempt from one of these acts; you pick which one at birth.

Insanity is one step from divinity, thinking one is one step from divinity is insanity; see Bob for case in point.

Hamburger helper is good only when cooked with hamburger or pig feet, no exceptions.

These are the abridged words of God as spoken by a box of discarded plastic forks to me, heed them well.

Coming out of my shell

I am not a social person, I long for a world composed of a solitary figures living in self-imposed exile. My premise is much like Imperial Japan from a couple centuries ago, except I don't have samurais battling ninjas over my person, at least not yet.

It isn’t that I am anti-social, Bob is capable of being friendly, personable and, on rare occasion, the life of the party. But being nice to others is asking so much for so little benefit, and as I said before social niceties are a must; I might loathe everyone but it is my duty to be pleasant. So, in lieu of spending my time exchanging empty nothings, I opt to stay way from the teeming masses and watch cartoons. It isn’t a terribly exciting life: I don’t have sex with lots of woman, nor do I generally discuss the meaning of existence, discuss the relevance of Spinoza and it is been years since I debated the etymological evolution from soda to Coke to pop and back again.

Sometimes I regret being a recluse, not because of the people but their ideas and actions have always fascinated me. I enjoy watching people throw up, listening to empty headed twenty-somethings claim God is dead and religion is unnecessary and even witnessing the horror that is the human mating ritual. However these moments of social longing are easily satisfied by spending a few hours with my peers. I try to look through their eyes, understand what drives them and find some relation between their existence and my own; generally, after these brief excursions, I go home and throw up.

gth

Perverts don't like chubby boys with hyper-developed apocrine glands

Mom: Were you molested as a child?

Bob: What?

Mom: Someone suggested that may be what is wrong with you, so were you?

Bob: MOM!!! Didn't you once say--during my formative years, mind you--I was too ugly to get molested.

Mom: So you are saying its my fault? Fuck you.

Bob: Hmmm...I wonder what, or whom is the cause of my psychosis.


gth

And I thought it was true love

Scientology is a cult, which is only the second time I found myself in agreement with German policy--I am a big believer in giant walls.

L. Ron Hubbard was a marginal science fiction writer; one day, while contemplating the finer points of saurian space rays, he decided to start a religion. I applaud him for that, Bob is all for reconstructing the cosmos in a fit of whimsy. By the way, I really hope that Ray Bradbury follows suit, one can only imagine the religious fervor derived from the scripture of Ray, though I would shy away from the sections involving carnivals.

Katie, please run while you still can. Tom, it is time you go back to the homeworld, and based your recent behavior I am fairly certain you got the castration part out of the way.

gth

Reason # 2,591 To Go On a Tri-State Killing Spree

I turn twenty-five in little over a weeks time. My years of virility are officially over, to think that only my mattress was truly able to appreciate the sexual prowess of Bob. As with most depressing events--death, taxes, fellatio from homeless transexuals named Shondra--the government feels the need to kick a man while he is prostrate and suffering from herpes, with that in mind I headed to the DMV.

I was willing to allow for an hour or so to renew my license, which seemed like a reasonable amount of time. I arrived and discovered twenty people waiting, a feeling joy swelled in my heart as even the most inept employees, who numbered six in all, could process twenty people in sixty minutes. Of course expectations, be they great or otherwise, are not to be had at the DMV; it is a bastion of inefficiency, a dullard's sanctuary, a place that pisses me the fuck off.

I waited for forty five minutes, watched three people be processed and was told that the printer was malfunctioning making it impossible to process license renewals for the rest of the day. It seems the octogenarian in charge was unable to figure out the problem, meaning that the printer most likely needed only to be unplugged and plugged back in, however being the senior in charge, not to mention in need of immediate funeral planning, he decided to order a new printer from offices located west of Columbus (FYI--when the DMV says west of Columbus what they really mean is Japan).

Rage is a funny thing: some see red; others feel blue; I opted for a little of both and cried a single tear, dropped my waiting-in-line number and shot the bird to the entire room.

gth

Dear Timmy,

You are supposed to be a marquee player, one of the best talents in the NBA. I once argued that you were the greatest power forward ever, the most complete four since McHale. Tonight, much to my shame, you choked. Big Fundamental, you single handedly handed the game to Detroit--Missed foul shots, lackluster defense and piss poor shot selection all but guaranteed a two-peat.

Thank god for Bobby, the NBA's representative from the AARP, who managed to outplay both you and the Motor City. He is clutch, you, on the other hand, are a bitch.

I hope you contract leprosy.

gth

P.S. Stephan A. Smith, whom I refer to as Bombastic Bastard, you are the reason why I am pro-lynching.

WTF

What the fuck is wrong this judge? A juvenile-prison guard CAN NOT HAVE CONSENSUAL SEX WITH A 16 YEAR OLD INMATE--IT IS A LEGAL IMPOSSIBILITY. Hell, I only wish it was possible to trade thirty weekends to have sex with a teenager locked in a cage.

gth

Who needs drugs

From Sin City to The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl, Robert Rodriguez continues to demonstrate that he is one sick fuck.

gth

It's Raining Men

He wasn't exactly running... more like falling.

gth

All the girls I know shallow throat.

Wow, it turns out Deep Throat was Mark Felt--I always figured it was G. Gordon Liddy providing the second greatest mind-fuck EVER, the first being the ending to High Tension. His family hails him as a hero; incidentally, Jeffrey Dahmer’s relatives thought him to be a vegetarian.

Nixon deserved to be impeached, but so did LBJ and old hole-in-the-head. All three orchestrated FBI cover-ups, break-ins and a innumerable other felonious offenses. Please keep that in mind when your grandfather gushes about Camelot or strokes his Teen People Lady Bird poster.

There are plenty of articles available on the particulars of Watergate; most are repetitive, polemical shit but here is one I rather enjoyed. The majority of the article is a rehash of every other Conservative Pundits , however the bit about Frank Willis is very telling.

gth

Woe to my inner serial killer

Here is an experiment. It is a mad, mad mixture of Faustian ideals, Frankensteinian anatomy and hyper-developed twentysomething angst.

Good day.

gth

Forty Inches Down I am a Midget

Sometimes, often when I am in the restroom sitting atop my off-white throne, I fantasize about ruling the world. It is a nice dream that involves torture, filet mignon, nipple tweaking and the elimination of all clown kind. Midgets would run free, monkeys would carry knives and women would massage the excess skin on the underside of my knees. What a dystopian paradise it would be.

gth

Dental Dams Be Damned

Average Human Adult: 28 Teeth (excluding Wisdom Teeth)

Bob: 12 Cavities

Percentage of healthy teeth in Bob's Mouth: 57%

Conclusion: Bob needs to floss

Further Conclusion: Bob is a stupid fuck.


gth

My Great-Great-Grandfather, a reputed horse thief, who once attempted to ride off on a crippled horse, was fond of saying: I wish I had gun, so I could punch you in the face.

I tried being reasonable. I tried being demanding. I tried cursing in Hindi. I even said please. None of it worked, so now I am stuck with only one alternative: genocide. All I wanted was to pay off my Dell Computer. Three years earlier, during I am fated to win the lottery phase because a just God wouldn't expect Bob to work, I purchased a Dell Computer System. I did so using a monthly payment system, which resulted in an interest laden payment scheme that equaled the technology budget of MIT. I am stupid enough to own up to my mistake; my bad, I chose the American Way of debt, more debt and crippling debt. However, as of late, actually as of the last eight weeks, I have been making a little bit of money--my up skirt video business has really picked up, so I opted to pay off my credit cards and computer. Apparently, Dell doesn't want me to pay of their computer system. I have called three separate times over the last week, paid two separate amounts, and still am unsure if the computer is paid off.

You see, Dell Financial Services is operated out of India. They try to fool the caller by going by innocuous names, Tom Smith for example. To be honest, I was almost fooled by their clever subterfuge; I mean, seriously, it isn't like they have extremely thick accents and an inability communicate on a FUCKING THIRD GRADE ENGLISH SPEAKING LEVEL. Starting off a customer service by lying, i.e. my name is Tom Smith, is bad enough, but then failing to actually know enough English to complete a simple transaction is grounds for ethnic cleansing. One girl actually cried because she couldn't understand what I was asking: I would like to pay off my balance for account number xxxx, can you please help me? She spouted off her memorized script of, "Please hold while I access your account. What is your address? Can you confirm your last name?" This is a fine script to follow for the introductory portion of the conversation, though when that is all you can manage to say after twenty minutes, we have a problem. I almost felt bad for Amanda, or Shiva as began to affectionately refer to her as, but then I realized something: this bitch was getting paid to do a job she wasn't qualified for, or even remotely capable of. After yelling into the phone for several minutes, a new voice rang loudly in my ear. His name was John and he wanted to know my account # and reason for calling.

At this point, I considered calling up my local Congressman and demanding that a 10 megaton nuclear warhead be "accidentally" dropped on the Dell Customer Service Center in India. Of course, after a few seconds of deep reflection, I decided that a tactical nuclear strike could wait until I paid off my account. John was most helpful; he actually understood most of what I asked and was able to take a payment. Now here is where the real fun begins, when paying off a debt that involves daily compound interest, the pay off amount fluctuates day to day, which is why I called in the first place. I wasn't sure what I actually owed on Thursday, May 19th, so I called to find out. John didn't seem to know either; instead, he quoted an amount that was totally inaccurate and several hundred dollars less than what I owed. Not to be one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and since I planned on launching a nuclear assault momentarily, I decided to agree with him and pay the amount.

Cut to four days and one botched nuclear offense later, and I receive a call from Dell Financial Service's at work. It seems that I was late on my monthly payment and I didn't pay there would be dire consequences. I am not sure if anything could be direr than the blood that was flowing out of my ears as I heard Tom Smith finish his scripted solicitation. I calmly explained, as a customer looked on, that I had attempted to pay off my account days earlier, and while I wasn't sure if the balance was paid in full, I did know that a payment had cleared days earlier which easily covered my monthly payment and a years worth of English lessons for Tom. Mr. Smith, as he likes to be called, said the system didn't show this, he queried if I had another account with Dell because the system didn't show a payment. I am not one to fault a stupid shit for repeating a statement twice within the same sustenance, even if only a stupid shit would repeat the same statement twice in the same sentence. Yet again, I calmly explained that was not the case, and asked if he could call back as I was dealing with a customer. Mr. Smith didn't seem to like my measured tone; he retorted that I would be reported for non-payment to the credit bureau if I didn't take care of this situation immediately. I calmly told him to fuck off, hung up the phone and apologized to a startled customer. I explained that I was speaking with an Indian, she replied, "Custer had it right." I couldn't have agreed more.

I called back a couple hours later, it was my sincere hope to pay off my computer and wash my hands completely of the Asian Sub-Continent. I spoke with a man, at this point everything gets cloudy as I only remember searing pain from here on in. I managed to pay an amount that seemed close to what I owed on the computer, it was well within the five or ten dollars. Shortly after making the payment, the man, whose name I can't remember but was probably something like Mike, hell it could have even been Bob (tangential note: if I ever happen to work in a caller center again, I am going to request a new name, I always liked the sound of Adolph Mengele), stated that my payment would not post for a week, and that my previous payment wouldn't post for several more days, which made tallying my final payoff impossible because he couldn't calculate it without knowing when the payments would clear.

What I remember next is thinking the following: Unnamed Indian Customer Service Rep had a strong grasp of the English language; he understood the subtleties of saying fuck you, bitch without actually resorting to coarse language. By this time, the line was dead and Bob's computer was left in limbo. Since this incident I wondered what Buddha would do, he is a native Indian and must have some sort of insight. After seconds of mediation it came to me, Buddha would kick Ganesh in his elephant sized nuts. It seemed like a rationale idea to me.


gth

My Life Story

The rapid turtle ran somewhat slowly up the hill. He ate a bee, smelled a peanut and met a midget from Deville. The trip was slow, the grind was hell, and thus the rapid turtle began to slow. At this juncture, which happened to be at the precipice of the hill, the turtle wondered something grand: why do turtles smell like day old ham? An answer was forthcoming for Sharon Stone was coming, she knew why, she surely did. Sadly, much to the rapid turtle's chagrin, Sharon Stone stabbed him through the shell with rusty ice pick; you see--hopefully you don't--Sharon thought the rapid turtle was her friend Michael Douglas performing a scene from Basic Instinct Two.


gth

Fan Mail: I deserve to be shot

The following post is an actual piece of fan mail, and my very unfunny--but trying to be so--response. Keep those love letters coming, I really enjoy them.

Fan Letter
Rogersallf@wmconnect.com wrote:
what the fuck is wrong with you pricks you all deserve to be shot!!!!!!!!!

Heartfelt Response
Are you using the royal "you", if such a thing exists, or simply lotting me in with the rest of the world's pricks. I would rather not be shot, as it is often a fatal occurrence, however, I am not entirely sure I can argue against my deserving a lead based diet. Then again, you don't know me very well, so I curious as to why you think I deserve to be shot? Did you discover my collection of hentai--god love tentacle loving, or learn about my past Nazi affiliation? If so, then yes, you should feel that way; otherwise, please refrain from threatening my personage via email.

By the way, fuck you and die.

bob

GTH

Wet Spot

Sometimes it is the little things that drive a man crazy. A beautiful young lady walked into the store today, she was accompanied by an overweight chap with fading hairline--he sought to hide this fact by sporting a buzz cut; however, his hair only grew on the back three quarters of the scalp, leaving the front section lacking both follicles and dignity. Now, let it be said, and said quite loudly, I am all for obese men escorting attractive young ladies. In fact, I, too, hope one day to find a chubby-chaser. But, this woman was extremely attractive and way too interested in her male companion. The pangs of jealousy threatened to overcome me, thankfully, these feelings were abruptly interrupted: the earthly vision did speak.

There are times when a man knows that he is a man, and then there are times when a man knows that he is only a pale shadow of wo-man. At first it wasn't the words, it was show she said them. Her accent was thick and most definitely French. I am a sucker for European accents, especially English and French. She was asking her boy-who-should-be-her-friend-and-only-her-friend about antiques, and all I could do was envision sticking French fries into her various orifices. My libido was about to peak, and before I knew it, the explosion occurred.

It was an orgasm in language, a syllabic explosion, a very good reason to change my underwear. She said, "They fucking rich." You might not understand by reading it, but when I heard it, it was as if her very voice had reverberated deep in my soul/pants. Of course, the moment, while intense, was also extremely short, and other then a loud grunt, my moment of carnal bliss went unnoticed. She left shortly thereafter with her brutish mate, and I excused myself to the bathroom and attempted to wipe clean my beautiful memory with a moist paper towel.

gth

More Conversational Fun

Frequent Antique Buyer: Bob, you look like you've lost a lot of weight.

Obese Me: No, in fact, I have gained fifteen pounds in the last couple months.

FAB: Really? Are you working out?

Fat Ass Bob:Uh...well, my clothes fit today. That always helps.

FAB: Uncomfortable Smile

Dad: Yea, he finally started wearing triple-extra-large shirts and size forty-four pants.

Lard Licker: Thanks for sharing.

gth

The most racist thing I said--today.

The following conversation is in reference to an attractive woman of African descent.


Friend: How can someone that size have such a big....

Me: Ass?

Friend: Yea.

Me: Well, she is black... and to deflect spears.

Friend: Stunned Silence

gth

I Lied--Fuck You too

Yea, I know that the blog is officially over, but I decided to issue a stay of execution. The blog will continue, at least for a little longer until my career as a porn director picks up.

A friend of mine had some interesting story ideas which inspired me, so I decided to share a short story. It is a story from college, or it least the title is from college. It is a work in progress--I still need to make final edits (which for me means a lot of editing) and rewrite the ending.

It weighs in a little under two-three words, not a lot by short story standards but more than enough to break into several parts over the next two weeks. Don't look for actual political or social commentary to start up for a while, I debating starting another site entirely to cover that. I understand if you don't want to read my short story stylings, but I figure it is better to air out my story ideas here than with my little brother.


Ubiquitous Computing

He had six minutes and fifteen seconds to shower, shave and figure out how to kill his wife. His morning itinerary was exact, making the last to-do on his list a little problematic. Mitchell, like all of his contemporaries, was anything but innovative, he was a creature born of routine and ruled by compulsory habit. Thankfully, his morning regiment only took six minutes to complete. The fifteen seconds not accounted for by the machine were considered incidental, not to mention well within operating morning parameters.

He opted to stab her in the heart with a serrated steak knife—of course, this was not an original idea; Mitchell had simply remembered the money shot of a popular nouveau snuff film. That left him with five seconds to ponder an age old question: Why does belly-button lint smell like curdled milk.

An Exercise in Egocentricity (THE FOLLOWING IS A DIRTY LIE)

This blog has existed for two years, along the way, often in spite of myself, I managed to be entertaining, funny, occasionally witty, and, on rare occasion, thought provoking. So, with those thoughts in minds, here is to me.

I have literally dozens of readers from around the globe--I am really big in Norway; the site has seen nearly fifty thousand unique visitors, which means my devoted twenty-six regular readers have way too much time on their hands. Ihateyou.us was never meant to be popular--and it really isn't--but I am flattered by those folk who enjoyed reading it. I truly enjoyed providing you, the deviant few, a semi-regular dose of shits and giggles. Here is to you.

My immediate family never cared for this blog. They weren't supposed to know about it, but the little brother, little bitch that he is, tattled on me. He came over to escape the wrath of she-who-hates-her-offspring. I, like any concerned brother, handed him the remote control and told him to leave me the fuck alone. My intention was not for him to look over my shoulder as I wrote a post about sexually molesting a mule--you see, I really wanted him to leave me the fuck alone, but he saw what he saw, told what he saw and made me even more of a pariah in the household.

My father pointed out that this was a waste of time and no one, not even those of the disturbed mind, would read it. Mom eloquently pointed out that I was a stupid bitch writing weirdo shit. I agreed, at least in principle, with father, but vehemently disagreed with mother's assertion. I prefer to think of myself as a weird bitch writing stupid shit. Nonetheless, I knew that this blog was an exercise in ego, a means to express what I should say, and lament what I didn't say. I didn't care what my family , or, for that matter anyone else, thought. In other words, this was my platform--one that often failed to live up to my minds eye, but always managed to make me think and/or shit. However, I did say a few things I regretted and stopped short of communicating several things I really meant.

The anonymity of the internet communication is a dangerous thing; one has a forum where they can say virtually anything, mention the otherwise unmentionable, all the while being protected from serious confrontation by the artificial veil of electronic irresponsibility. The truth, which I have alluded to before, is that I generally care for most people. Push comes to shove, I think the best of mankind--and yes, I even think the same of womankind, even if they are deceitful hell-spawned-hags. Bob hates stupid but he loves people. This blog has limited my discussion to mostly negatives, and while bitching is fun, it isn't productive. I have a lot to say about the world, some of it bad, some of it good, and most of it awkwardly funny, however; this is no longer the place to express it.

I plan on writing in the future: be it in the form of letters to the editor, columns in a zine, short stories on a Lovecraft fan-site, or a semi-autobiographical novel about college. Writing this blog has been a great experience because it has proven that I can spin a clever sentence, even when forgetting to use a comma properly, or ending on a preposition by. Who knows, maybe someday, or Saturday (sounded funny to me), you will read something else of mine and cleverly remark on how my prose has degenerated from speaking about an itchy rectum to commenting on my wife's smelly uterus. One can only hope, in the meantime, this is goodbye.

The archives will remain for a few months, so if there was ever a time to share the abundance of shite that is http://www.ihateyou.us/, it is now. Thanks again for being my audience and stroking my ego in ways that only a Vietnamese prostitute knows how.

God Bless

And least I forget,

Go to Hell

Wow.

Go to Hell

What I think about Links (not the once staple Personal Computer Golf Game)

If only she would have had a heart attack. Maybe next time when good-natured teenagers stop by, they will shoot her in the head instead of leaving cookies.

I would say that he is a polarizing personality, but since virtually everyone hates him, I will simply refer to him as an ass. It is good to know that professors can be held accountable for their words, though it did take several years and Bill--Talk Dirty To Me--O'Reilly to force the issue.

Finally, I may not share his joy in killing the enemy, but, really, don't we want our soldiers to enjoy their work. I, for one--or would that be two, since Lt. Gen. James Mattis originally expressed it, think that the Taliban soldiers were not positive examples of manhood, in fact, I would call them ball less monkeys. I hope the Council on American-Islamic Relations can forgive my brutal characterization of their Islamic brethren; if they can't, I am willing to let them cut off mom's head and to call it even.

Go to Hell

I really should have read the Federalist Papers and not spent Poli Sci 210 dreaming of Linda Schuman

I wanted to write a piece that shared my profound respect for the Constitution. I have spent nearly two hours writing, rewriting, and rewriting what I rewrote concerning this fact. Every revision clearly indicated my sincerity, but no matter how much I tried it came off as obtuse. The problem is I am not capable of doing justice to the document, nor to the brilliant men who created it. They created something that will forever be both timeless and timely. That is all I can think to say. So, umm...good for you Jefferson and crew. I hope that last line is as painful to read as it was to write.

We all are clear that I am pro-Constitution. I just don't like how it’s been used for political ends--by both parties--or, much more importantly, how modern day interpretations have lead to the slaughter of over forty million innocents. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that the same document that insures my right to liberty, is used to justify the crushing of pre-infantile skulls. Then again, that's just me.

The real purpose of today's post is to congratulate America's Youth for being ignorant. I still don't want you, the children weaned on MTV and reality television, to vote or do anything more taxing than work as busboys, waitresses and porn stars, but I am really proud of your profound indifference to society at large.

This study, at least according to the article, demonstrates that today's high school students think the First Amendment is a second-rate issue. They also think censorship isn't necessarily bad and that flag burning is illegal. I only disagree with them on one point, and it is for a factual reason, because I completely agree with their intent, flag burning is not illegal in the United States. Go to a crowded space, be it a protest or at a miss ethanol pageant in the local mall, take a piece of fabric, your shirt for example, pour an accelerant on it, take out a lighter and then watch the sparks grow. Guess what will happen? You will be arrested. However, if you do the same thing with the American Flag it is considered a form of expression and not an attempt at arson. It is good to know that our judiciary lacks the common sense found in a generation that spends their free time watching Elimidate.

Personally, I am all for censorship. Some people want to ban Sponge Bob for promoting homosexual values. Others want to ban the speech of those same people who want to ban Sponge Bob. I want both groups to shut the fuck up. Obviously, this isn't going to happen, but it does prove a point: Everyone on some level believes in censorship, usually it involves limiting the rights of those whom you disagree with--that is a bad thing, unless you agree with me. It is the state's job (State and Local Government, and to a limited degree Federal Govt.) to limit access, and yes, even speech of those who endanger the well being of society. In other words, you have every right to cheer for John Kerry, you have every right to write poetry about humping a dolphin, but you don't have any right sitting things aflame in a public place--unless it is yourself, I am all for self-immolation--to have a parade preaching hate and ignorance (KKK and the ACLU), or to market albums towards children that preach killing cops, beating whores, and licking coke off the corpse of your soon-to-be-dead ex-girlfriends ass.

The Constitution was never meant to protect those later examples; in fact, it limited itself so the Federal Government wouldn't be guilty of actually promoting such reprehensible behavior, or worse, creating it. Instead it gave the states the ability to determine how best to protect their citizens from the tyranny of everyday life, while the Federal Government worried about fending off attacks from Brits riding in giant teacups, and negotiating exclusivity trade agreements for French berets.

I am ranting now, which is usually when I am at my best, or worst. Either way, I need to wrap this up, as I have wandered from the original intent of this entry: High School Students still have a modicum of common sense, which can't be said for society at large. They are probably ignorant of the Constitution, but there perceived indifference to the First Amendment, is actually what happens when common sense and ignorance meet. They don't know enough not to know that the Constitution is no longer an elastic document, but a malleable one, whose shape is determined by whatever group--Republican, Democrat, Liberal, Conservative, Progressive, Traditionalist, Christian, Jew, Muslim, Masons--wields the biggest hammer.

Good for you students of America, and shame on you educators who are too damned lazy to indoctrinate them into believing whatever popular society says to believe. Though, I readily admit that taking solace in ignorance--even when serving a good end--is probably a bad thing. Unless, of course, ignorance serves my own ends, then I am for it.

I really should be a public schools administrator.

Go to Hell

My favorite link that I can't read.

Sports, Crushes and the lives ruined along the way

I am suffering from writer's deluge. There is so muchI want to write about, but I can't figure out what is worth the time and what will get me published in Penthouse. I did manage to write out an application to the be the new intern for The Sports Guy, however, I am not sure that was a worthwhile exercise. When applying for a position, even one at ww.espn.com page 2, it isn't good to begin with "how I have a man-crush on you." Of course I assured Bill that it wasn't about lust, I simply found his prose to be elegant and beautiful. It went downhill from there. Odds are good, damn good, that I won't be hearing back from The Sports Guy, but maybe his attorney will be in contact with me about a restraining order. One can hope.

I don't want to be a baby's mamma

I was thinking about pregnancy, how I didn't want to get pregnant, and if it was possible to self-impregnate. I know that is unlikely for a man to impregnate himself, but one can never be too careful. As you very well know--or at least should know by reading through the archives of my blog--I am not prepared (fit) for parenthood. Therefore, I must strive to prevent a little Bob from entering the world. I concluded that Yasmin , the #1 brand of birth control, is my best bet to prevent pregnancy; if that fails, there is always the forceps-to-the-skull option.

After researching the benefits of Yasmin, I was surprised to discover that it doesn't prevent sexually transmitted disease-- HIV being the notable example. Now, I don't know about you, but my sex-ed teacher said that birth control is the cure-all and end-all to my sexual promiscuity worries. Then again, I am pretty sure I can't catch a sexually transmittable disease from myself--I consider the sores, similar as they may be, on my genital region and inside my mouth to be mere coincidence.

Just remember: The pill can prevent pregnancy, but it can't protect you from your penis falling off--oh, and it causes bloating, not to mention cervical cancer (I am not sure if I have a cervix or not).

Go to Hell

Dan Rather Didn't Send Me The Memo

George Walker Bush was inaugurated today. He is only the sixteenth president to participate in--or suffer through--two inaugurations. In protest of those protesting the inauguration, I decided to post my protest.

I accept the notion of free speech, even if it isn't applied equably. Point out that Christmas, a Federal Holiday, celebrates the birth of Christ and you are violating civil liberties; illustrate that young black males are more likely to commit violent crimes than elderly Korean women and you are labeled a racist. In other words, free speech only protects the speech that you agree with it--and when I say you, I mean those people who didn't vote for Bush.

However, even if my point of view is routinely trampled upon, even if my values are mocked, and even if I believe in Christ and not affirmative action, I still tolerate the speech--stupid as it may be--of others.

So, good luck with your protest and enjoy the next four years. This might not be my country, hell, the course of history--meaning the oh-so-biased academics--will probably say its yours, nonetheless; I just wanted to say: Thanks for being such gigantic douches; demonstrating that the spirit of the 1960's is dead, not to mention retarded.

Go to Hell

My Hero: The Fuhrer

Prince Harry: Dad, I am not satisfied with being rich, handsome and a prince. Any suggestions?

Prince Charles: Hitler seemed like a happy, satisfied and well adjusted fellow. Why not be a Neo-Nazi?

Prince Harry: Great idea! Jewish interment camps, here we come. What flavor of tea goes with genocide?

Prince Charles: I found the flavor of Darjeeling quite soothing, after having your mother killed.

Prince Harry: Oh Dad, your such a card.


Go to hell

I had a good reason for killing twenty college coeds, honest!

Here is a list of mother's pet names for me:

• Bitch
• Fucking Bitch
• Fucker
• Whore
• Terrorist
• Faggot
• Faggot Bitch
• Loser
• Fat Ass
• Free Willie
• And my newest name--Embezzler

Go to Hell

He has a point

Little Brother: Petey (the family mutt--who, by the way, takes great delight in urinating on my discarded clothing) is worthless. He can't do anything.

Me: He can jump up onto the bed, which is pretty impressive considering his diminutive size.

Little Brother: What does diminutive mean?

Me: I think it means small, if not, well, it does now.

Little Brother: Ok. You know, Petey is half white and black.

Me: What? I don't follow.

Little Brother: Petey is half black, which means he can jump.

Me: Issy! You shouldn't say that.

Little Brother: It is true--white guys can't jump.

Me: That isn't true. There are plenty of white guys who can jump.

Little Brother: Name one.

Me: ...Well....umm...I am not the right person to ask. I would say to ask dad, but he would probably end up explaining instead how white people play basketball, while black people play jungle ball.

Little Brother: You are stupid.

Me: No argument here.

Go to Hell

Author's Note: I was shocked to learn that white men can, in fact, jump. Stefan Holm, 2004 Olympic High Jump Champion, is a living testimonial to this fact; however, he is from Sweden--which doesn't strictly count. The Swedes are a little too dark to be considered white; I think the term white with an asterisk is applicable in their case. Nonetheless, I, a gravity-bound white guy, will take what I can get.

Ha

I don't feel sorry for him. He put himself in this situation by fucking a thirteen-year-old girl.
(A friend responding to the sorry state affairs of a mutual acquaintance.)

Go to Hell

I am not dead--yet.

Posts will continue next week. I had a bout with food poisoning that resulted in the subsequent terror that is an empty stomach.

Go to Hell