There are times when I question the purpose of existence. Why are we here? What is our purpose? Where does it all lead? There are other, much more frequent, times when I realize the truth; God hates each and every one of us.
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
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Useless Information that may save your LIFE
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
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
Warning: This post is more asinine than most, which is saying quite a lot, so read on at your own risk.
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
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
Friday Night Fun
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.
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
I was quoted in the newspaper on Thursday. I feel honored, though am a little miffed they left out my take on how Kerry eats donkey balls. Damn the press and their need to appease the donkey ball eating segment of society. Thankfully I am able to express my full opinion in today's post.
(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
(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
Who would have thought
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. )
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. )
Monday, August 30, 2004
Irascible Racist
Bob: Hey dad, you know the woman who owns the Golden Wok? (the best Chinese restaurant in town)Dad: Yea.
Bob: Her daughter is really cute and around my age.
Dad: She is probably half-white.
Bob: No, I am pretty sure she is pure Chinese.
Dad: You know those people tortured our men in World War II.
Bob: You are thinking of the Japanese.
Dad: The difference is? They are all murdering bastards.
Bob: Dad...
Dad: Is that her over there?
Bob: Her daughter? Yea, that's her.
Dad: Definitely half-white.
Go to Hell
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Fun with hyperlinks
Early this morning while looking up actresses from the ridiculously bad Dorm Daze, I had cause for alarm. Actually, to be honest I had cause to be terrified beyond belief. I had just finished viewing my tenth Topanga Fan site of the night, when I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head in time to see the backend of a beast both furious in movement and gargantuan in size. This abomination had the appearance of an arachnid but appeared to have only four legs. Also, it had some sort of appendage at the end, resembling a tail of sorts. Perhaps it was a Scorpion, albeit a deformed one, missing the obligatory eight legs. Or, was it something worse, a being not yet identified in the annals in Zoology. Could it be that I had by chance discovered a new species in the trailer, was that possible? I would call it the Bob Bug, no take that back; I would call it the Bobus Maximus Bugimus, yea I like that much better. Anyway, my initial horror waned in lieu of this promising prospect. I had finally found a means to success and fortune. However, my mood soon turned dour once more after realizing that this "new" species was perhaps a very old one. Had I stumbled upon one of the ancient space faring ancestors of the Arachnids? Was it sent to spy upon me, converse with me or simply to suck the very marrow of my bones? How does one battle an immortal bug? I needed a plan of action, so with the aid of Google I sought a way to free myself from the Space Bug menace.
I learned that most terran based arachnids could easily be dispatched with a well placed stomp, however it was prudent, and just plain cool, to wear a pair of cowboy boots while doing the stomping. But, was this not an immortal arachnid, a being so foul that it only needs four legs to control the universe, not the usual obligatory eight. I feared that simple stomping would not be enough. After several minutes of searching, my quest seemed doomed, that is until I stumbled upon the most useful of biological endeavors, cryptozoology. If the Mexicans could live with the dreaded Chupacabra, which many believed had extraterrestrial origins, I, Bob, could overcome this dreaded menace. Yet, even the scientific prowess of the cryptozoology community had no answer for my most pressing of queries; how was one supposed to destroy an immortal space monster?
I knew there must be a way, but I had no idea where to look next. With all options exhausted I relied on the power of google to save me once again. I typed in Giant Space Arachnid and found salvation. The Giant Spider Invasion was a classic film was from the 1970's. As the titled indicates it deals with a Giant Spider Invasion, one that was caused by a wayward meteor. Now, I must admit the story sounded a little farfetched and it didn't exactly mirror my own but it was nearing five in the morning, so I was willing to entertain any solution, even creative ones. Basically the plot revolves around a meteor that is the gateway into another dimension, one bent on taking over the earth via giant spiders. I tried to figure how the film ended, but all I discovered beyond a brief plot summary, and that the Skipper, Alan Hale Jr., played a key role, was that the giant spider was in fact a VW Bug. How does this help me? It really doesn't. I guess the immortal space farcing arachnids had won. Then again I might just call Terminix.
Go to Hell
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