I am a big fan of the vs. movie concept. Taking two successful movie properties and putting them at odds with one another is movie gold, or at least it should be. Jason vs. Freddy, a movie I waited well over a decade for, was a lot of fun. Was it worth the long wait? No, but only because the over emphasis on the victims and the story. Who gives a shit about a bunch young no-name actors, and really the only story you need can be summed up in the following:

Jason walks into abandoned house on Elm St., Freddy appears and calls Jason a bitch. The music from Battle Royale begins in the background. Jason cleaves Freddy in two, after merging back together Freddy responds with a couple of taunts about Jason's parentage and proceeds to play chops on Jason's face. The fight escalates from there culminating in gigantic finale that manages to seperate space & time and creates an endless void that threatens to encompass the Universe. Roll the Credits El Fin

Over the weekend I watched Aliens vs. Predator. I left the theatre in a state of shock. It made Freddy vs. Jason look like Citizen Kane by comparison. First and foremost they cut out the blood and gore to garner a PG-13 rating, which particularly detracts from the Aliens appeal. Secondly, the story was contrived to the point that it was painful, and the actors were at best direct to video low budget horror schlock quality. But really the worst thing was the utter lack of Alien on Predator action. Imagine you rent Debbie Does Dallas and have to spend sixty minutes watching game film, ten minutes of disrobing, and at most twenty minutes of action, with the gratuitous portions censored out. Actually that would be more fun then watching this film because at least with Debbie Does Dallas Redux one has a chance to see some tits.

Anyway, none of this now matters because God has spoke and the ultimate film is soon to be made. There are rumors of a Jason vs. Freddy sequel in works, which is fine by me as long as they forget the story and focus on the ass whooping. But guess what? There is much more to this sequel because Ash, played by Bruce Campbell, from the Evil Dead trilogy is supposed to take part as well. Jason vs. Freddy vs. Ash could very well be the ultimate achievement of the human species. If you didn't pray to God before, you best better do so now because this is irrefutable evidence of his Divine existence. I haven't been this excited since discovering the art of masturbation.

Go to Hell

The Pool

Today was special. Not the "I lost my virginity to a Mexican whore" kind of special, but memorable nonetheless. Mother asked me to accompany her and the little brother to the pool. Mom and I usually do not spend time with one another, unless food or work is involved so this was a very important milestone. I was actually looking forward to spending time with my two least favorite immediate family members, but as I should have will known, when Bob feels a pang of familial love it is a harbinger of disaster.

The actual trip to the pool went well and involved the usual small talk about my inability to date a female from my species and Issy's desire to punch me in the balls. Being fairly immune to such conversation, I felt pretty positive about our upcoming swim. Upon arriving I was surprised to see only a half dozen cars in the parking lot. But, I immediately rationalized that most pool-goers are adolescents dropped off by their uncaring parents, so I wasn't too worried. After paying the cute little Asian girl, who reminded me of Lotus Blossom, we ventured towards the pool. There were at most thirty people there, which includes the lifeguards, making my earlier rationalization ring false but who needs a bunch of nymph like twelve year old girls to have a good time at the pool? Not I, I say, not I. However, soon thereafter something very troublesome became apparent. I, Robert Kyle Wilson, was the fattest person at the pool. Now, I am used to being on the upper half of the fatitude scale but to actually be the most obese person at the public pool is a little much even for me. There were of course plenty of chubby mother's wearing ill fitting bathing attire, and I did take some solace in that fact but I still had a good fifty pounds on any of these domestic behemoths. Of course Issy didn't help matters as he took great delight in pointing out that I was fatter than everyone there. All I could think of was "Et tu, McDonalds."

After coming to terms with my position as fattest man at the pool, I jumped in and took a little swim. Or, at least that was the plan. The moment my ample flesh touched the pool coldness like no other, save for perhaps death, shrouded my entire being. In other words it was fucking cold in there. I could barely move, more less swim, so I opted none of the above and hauled my ass out of there and back to the warm embrace of my Power Puff Girls towel.

It now made sense why the parking lot was empty and only a couple dozen people were there, because only an idiot, or my mother, would deem it fit to swim when it was at most seventy-five degrees out with a heavy overcast blocking out any relief from the sun. I am not ashamed to admit that even the short period I spent in the pool was enough to shrivel my usual massive three and half inches down to one. It was that cold.

Now, things did manage to improve over the course of day. A fat black man showed up and took my place as King Fat; I could only hope one day to have the bitch tits like his. And, eventually the clouds parted, allowing the sun to warm the pool to a semi-habitable state. All was well with the world, until mother decided to engage the pretty young life guards in conversation. If I have one bane in this world, it would be attractive young ladies. I am putty in their hands, and also money in their pockets. Therefore I strive to maintain a minimum of fifty yards from there presence to prevent any unwarranted gifts of money and electronic devices, such as a pager. (The last one being a true story) My mother is aware of my problem and believes she can fix it. Her solution being very simple, direct and extremely painful to my mental health. The first step in her "final solution" is scoping out the most attractive woman in a given area. She then walks up to them and engages them in small talk. After a few minutes she yells, and I mean bellows from the bottom of her lungs, for me to come over. Usually I run away but being at the pool, with very little shelter, and standing out like an Albatross due to my position as King Fat in waiting, I had no where to go. So, I waddled over to her and listened as she tried to fix me up with a beautiful nineteen year old. Now, when I use the phrase fix me up, what I mean to say is she blatantly, in the most obtuse manner possible, states that I am single, live in a trailer, work for my parents, graduated from college with a degree in religion, and am serious need of a date.

Surprisingly this approach did not work. The lifeguard responded with a weak smile, stated she was already involved and quickly retreated to an empty chair across the pool. My already shriveled member managed to invert itself into my actual flesh like a baby kangaroo into its mother's pouch. Of course mom blamed me for the failure due to my inability to speak up for myself. Also, she stated it wouldn't hurt if I lost a little weight and got some sun. You could say she was kicking a man while he was down, but really what worse can you do to guy whose nuts suffered from a case of reverse puberty and rescinded into his stomach.

Thankfully we left soon after.

It was a good day to be me.


Go to Hell

We are having a party this Saturday. Who is this "we" I speak of? Well, actually we means a friend of mine, but I make the fliers, typos and all, so on some level it is "my" party, if in name only. Why such an odd hour? The reason is two-fold; first, one is more likely to remember an odd time such as this, and knowing human nature as well as I do, most people won't show up until two hours later from the start time anyhow.

Now I know you are excited about a party hosted by Bob, and can't wait to attend. It is a rare treat to spend an evening with me, and most likely none of you will ever get to experience it. What I am trying to say is that you are not invited. It isn't personal, I just don't like you all very much and would rather spend my time alone, sitting in the corner, developing new and innovative ways to kill myself with a plastic spork. I know this is terribly disappointing, world crushing even, but you will get over it. And, if not self mutilation by the molded spawn of fork & spoon always makes me feel better.

Go to Hell

Alltel Publishing's customer service department, which I believe consists of an albino,a midget and a Puerto Rican pimp, has deemed my complaint unimportant. In fact they went as far as to say that I should be happy they are not billing me. Of course since they failed to render the service, we contractually agreed upon, I wasn't really expecting to pay them anything. Honestly, at this point they can't do anything about not publishing my ad in the Yellow Pages, nor can they make up for the thousands of dollars in lost business this very well may cause, but they could at least be courteous, return my phone calls and at least pretend to care about their mistake.

I could sue them, and would probably win. I have several contracts, signed by their representatives, stating when, where and how my ad would be placed. They simply forgot the when, where and how part. But, even if I did win a small settlement, would they ever pay? Probably not. They are a very large company, with tens of millions of dollars in assets, and could care less about a marginal judgment rendered against them in small claims court.

Now, I have considered blowing up their corporate office, hunting down the children of all the senior executives and bludgeoning them to death with the Alltel Phone Book, but that course of actions seems a little extreme.

Maybe I will just piss on the doorstep of their local office and set a stack of their phone books aflame creating a burning effigy of my hatred. I like that idea.

Go to Hell

Enough said.







Go to Hell

Why I Hate the World


Mid April 2004

Alltel Publishing Rep: Thank you for signing the contract and faxing it back, I hope you enjoy your ad in the Auctioneer's section of the Yellow Pages.



Late May 2004 (After over one week of messages and being given the run around)

Alltel Publishing Rep # 2: Your original representative has left the company but I want to assure you that your ad will be in the upcoming Yellow Pages as your contract dictates.
We sent a notification to your father of his ad as a reminder; since you are putting an ad in for the first time we don't usually send such reminders.

Me: So, it is going to be in the Yellow Pages, right? I can send you my copy of the information, if you need it.

Alltel Publishing Rep # 2: No, that won't be necessary.



Late July 2004

Unknown Publishing Rep: I need to discuss your ad in the Yellow Pages.

Dad: My son takes care of that, can I have your phone # so he can call you back.

Unknown Publishing Rep: No, that is alright just wait till the phone back comes out to see if it is right.

Dad:?????

Unknown Publishing Rep: Hangs Up



Monday August 2

Me: Dad I have some bad news.

Dad: You killed a hooker?

Me: No, not yet. The phone book doesn't have my auctioneer ad.

Dad: I knew it. I guess several phone calls, verifications and a contract doesn't mean what it used to.

Me: Yep.

Mom: Serves you right.


The above events did occur, pretty much as I have written them. Is there moral to this pathetic display of customer service? Yes, there is one. Alltel Publishing, who publishes the most popular local phone book, is staffed by mildly retarded Pandas.

Well now I can rely on the local newspaper, the Newark Advocate, for my advertising needs. In other words, I am fucked. I would probably be better off stapling an Auction sign to my ball sack, running around naked and repeating the Mantra "All your base belong to us."


Go to Hell

I really enjoyed this site, I wonder why? Pay close attention to the Least likely for you to mind being raped by winner, as she has caused quite a stir in the internet community. She is cute, a sex offender, and a Southern Belle to boot. Definitely someone I would take home to mom.

Earlier this evening I saw that which no man should ever see. I was leaving the mall when a cute blonde appeared in the corner of my eye. She looked to be around fifteen to sixteen years of age, was approximately 5'2 and at first glanced, which consisted of checking out her face and legs, she weighed no more than 110 pounds. Lately, I have been leaving the bosom for last, when checking out a girl, and what a surprise that caused today. This girl had a pair of breasts that defied nature, the word mammoth does not even begin to do them justice. In fact the only proper way to describe them would be; cyclopean mounds of alien flesh. I seriously considered approaching this young lady, but what would I say? Miss, those awe inspiring mountainous things, you call breasts, can't be real, but you appear to be too young to have implants, so really the only relevant question is; Can I touch them?

Go to Hell

Most of my peers, both gainfully employed and otherwise, do not believe my "job" at the parent's store constitutes real work. I have supported and even perpetuated this notion over the years and for that I am very sorry. Most people whom I am acquainted with do not have tough or demanding jobs, in fact other than the inevitable mental anguish that comes from working for the man, they have a very easy time of it. Now, I must admit that there is something to be said for working forty hours a week consistently, something which, as of yet, I have been unable to do. But, I truly wonder if any of my friends, or really any sane person, could perform my duties here at Park Place Antiques. The first issue is that I work for my mom & dad, or as I affectionately refer to them "Hitler & Mussolini." My mother, a.k.a. the Fuehrer, is, by all accounts, the cruelest being in the universe. To be fair I will limit this discussion to her treatment of me at work, as not even your darkest nightmares could entertain her treatment of Bob at home.

The Fuehrer

Mom likes to mock my job related ineptitude, in particular my ignorance of the antique world. She routinely points out this failing to any and all peoples who come through the shop doors. Honestly, this isn't such a major issue and it is one I could learn to deal with however, it gets much worse. After initially portraying Bob as a complete and utter moron, mom begins to build momentum of the ridicule-bob-kind. Keep in mind that she is generally speaking to perfect strangers while reading the following. Mother then likes to point out my relationship inadequacies, how I am single and forevermore shall remain so, and hint that I am of the homosexual persuasion.

After completely humiliating me, she questions the customers about their own children and whether or not they attended college. They usually respond about how wonderful their children are doing, or had done in college. Usually, mom gives them an evil grin and begins the tale of woe that was my collegiate career. She explains how I went to an expensive, well esteemed Liberals Arts institution. A place that afforded limitless opportunities to its students. Of course her no good, worthless son did not take advantage of this once in a lifetime chance, instead he spent four years drinking, breaking University fixtures and nearly failing out of school. He refused to go to class and at one point claimed that I suffered from a severe mental illness, in order to prevent academic related expulsion. I can't refute most of her argument, since it is in fact true. However, I would like to point out that I only drank for approximately two years of college, and spent the other two years laying in bed. And, honestly anyone who has spent any considerable amount of time with my mother can attest to her mental illness, and while that might not constitute a medical diagnosis, it is good enough for me. Anyway, I don't want to spend too much time discussing my mother's hate for her eldest son, so now I will share the story of Dad and how he thinks I am his bitch at work.

Il Duce

I love my father very much. But, I pity him even more. He has to put up with my mother, Issy, and me. Such a fate is proof positive that the Devil exists and enjoys torturing mankind. However, I must admit that a great deal of father's pain is of the self inflicted kind. He allows, or enables as all you pop psychology guru's like to say, Mother, myself, and Issy to act like total spoiled brats and treat him less like a man and more like an ATM. But, don't mourn the everyday hell that is dad's life because he still manages to get his shots in, at least towards Bob, while at work.

Dad believes that he is the absolute authority on any and all issues relating to work. Occasionally, I do come up with an innovative way to make more money or simply a means to reduce overhead cost. Everyone of those ideas is shot down quicker then a US spy plane flying over China. Of course he is the owner, and subsequently the boss so his word is law. I can deal with that, or at least I can pretend to do so. But, he doesn't stop there, dad then takes it to the next level and ridicules my brilliant ideas in front of his cronies.

It would be different if these men were captains of industry, self-made millionaires, or even adequate businessmen, but these men are nothing more than old deprecate retirees who never succeeded in any personal venture, and try leech off of dad's modest success. In other words he is unjustly calling me out in front of a group of dim-witted jackals who enjoy seeing someone, such as myself, with unlimited potential being knocked down a peg or two. As a wise friend once told me "Fuck that shit."

I am willing to suffer untold humiliations at the hands of marginally attractive women, my mother, and the little brother but Bob draws the line at this action. So, usually I verbally berate my father, in front of those same slack jawed rejects, concerning his poor business skills or simple lack of formal education. This results in shouting, expletives being tossed around (which my Dad never uses, except in reference to me or people of color) and finally my mother rushing in and stating "You are going to kill your dad, Bob. What are you going to do then?" My response, which is never changes and I must admit is not terribly creative, is "The real question what would your lard laden ass do without him to care of you?" The argument goes downhill from there.
Father dearest also has a bad habit of rescinding his authority when it comes to issues he is not comfortable with. Anytime an employee needs disciplined, a return phone must be made, or any issue involving Ebay, he states that I am the boss and need to take initiative and solve the problem. In other words my official job title is "Store Bitch" unless it involves serious problems or concerns, where upon I become the Store Manager.

As you can tell Dad isn't quite as bad as Mom but he is far from easy to work with or for. Of the two I would give him my non-cancerous kidney, while Mom well she would have to make do with the other one.

The purpose of today's' rant was to demonstrate that I do have a job, one that is extremely difficult and frankly, you probably couldn't handle it. The best thing for me would be to leave and start anew at a non-family run business, to leave the comfortable embrace of working in this hell hole, and instead start my long sojourn on the corporate ladder. What fun would that be? I might be the Jews to my parents Nazi Germany, but I don't think Bob would have it any other way. There heinous oppression has molded Bob into the man he is today. You may argue that isn't saying much, and I woud say "To Shut the Fuck up and die."


Have a nice weekend,

Go to Hell

I passed the Auctioneer's exam.   Now, I can look forward to a career that is only marginally better then that of a carnival barker. 

Go me.

 
Go to Hell

The auctioneer's exam was not too difficult, thought it apparently written by a mad Arab, as it mentioned the summoning of the ancient Old Ones in several places.  Actually, it was written by the former legal consul of Ohio, who now enjoys writing testing material in the most convoluted and imprecise ways possible.  I pointed this fact out to the Administrative Assistant, who basically runs the Auctioneer department, which is scary in of itself, but anyway she didn't take kindly to my harsh, albeit entirely accurate, criticism.
Here is an example question from the test, and I am really not exaggerating in its presentation

Is it not false that when one sells 300 cattle at auction, they are not mandated by the State of Ohio to have an auctioneer’s license?
 
The above example was in the True or False section, thought I wouldn't have been surprised if they put it in the multiple choice area.

When selling chattel property at Auction, in what instances are you NOT required having an auctioneer’s license?
 
A. When selling your own property.

B. When selling your own property, which was not bought for resale.

C. When selling your own property, which was not bought for resale and purchased within the last ten years.

D.  All of the Above.

E.  None of the Above

F.  When Lord Yoggosoth deems it fit not to.


A, B, C, are all correct and subsequently D would be the proper answer but A could very well be incorrect.  If you read the Ohio Revised Code, it clearly states a person must not be selling property bought for resale, if they have an auction without a license. Since, the other two choices specifically mentioned "not for resale" one could easily assume that the test-maker/laywer/retardedwhore put in choice A to confuse and mislead the test taker.  Furthermore, answer C could be a red herring as well because the ten year provision is not applicable or mentioned in the ORC.  In other words D is probably the answer but B is the best choice because it is the only one that is clear, accurate and actually referred to in the ORC.   I picked choice F

By the way if you think that previous examples are fabricated, or at the very least greatly exaggerated, please do read test makers previous work located in the ORC, in particular section 4707.   She really does have a gift for making the easiest concepts and procedures complicated as hell.  I pretty sure she hand in writing the Microsoft user agreement as well

Go to Hell