She deflowered me (I suppose the same applies to her about me)

I ran into my ex-girlfriend's (#1 out of 2) father yesterday. We exchanged pleasantries for several minutes; he then mentioned how his daughter had moved and was having difficulty finding a teaching position. He failed to mention why she had moved: the ex had gotten married a couple years ago. I am not sure if he failed to bring up her husband or marriage to spare my feelings or to simply prevent suffering through what would have been a very awkward silence. Of course, I have always wondered if she wore white at the wedding. I am thinking she did; I am also thinking she is liar and a whore in the eyes of God. Maybe I should have brought that up in our conversation.

Retarded Man-Child or Man-Who-Talks-With-Ass

Jim Carrey might be a better actor (a big MIGHT), but Adam Sandler's work has now been referenced by a federal judge. Odoyle rules!

gth

Should Have Bites and Retarded Football

Robert Horry, the single greatest clutch shooter without the initials MJ, decided to take a little nip out of his competition. The replay shows he didn't actually bite down; in fact, it appears he didn't even really gum his opponent. Apparently it is hard to target another large, sweaty man in the midst of a two team tangle up. Mr. Clutchtastic has been suspended for a couple games, which is largely unwarranted, even if he had successfully bitten Stackhouse, it looked like the bite was to extricate Horry from the tangle up, not to cause injury or share rabies. Big Rob just wanted to go home and celebrate another Spurs victory by banging an Eastern European porn star. Can't we all relate?

Vince Young has taken a lot of heat for being stupid; his agent claims the allegations are untrue and unfair. Recently, Vince has said something similar. First and foremost, I am certain Young didn't score 6 out of 50 on the Wonderlic test; based on the carefully worded releases from both the NFL and his agent, Major Adams, I am fairly certain Young scored between a 7 and a 9 on the test. However, this score range still indicates illiterate status. His second score was 16, which indicates just north of stupid, which is not an uncommon characteristic amongst professional athletes--see Dan Marino. The real problem is that the types of questions on the Wonderlic, and some have hinted the ACTUAL questions from the test, are readily available to all agents and players. So even a stupid person should do reasonably well on the Wonderlic, it is virtually an open book test, unless, of course, they suffer from one of the following conditions: a learning disability that has gone undiagnosed for seventeen year; illiteracy, again that has gone unnoticed for seventeen years; fucking retard syndrome.

It wouldn't surprise me if Young had skated through his scholastic career based solely on his athletic prowess; this sort of thing happens everyday. It is entirely plausible that he suffers from a learning handicap or is even illiterate. On the other hand, running an college offense, simple or not, requires one to be able to distinguish symbols and words; Young either faked it really well or his coaches brought in extra "help" to translate the complex squares, circles and slots to Young. I don't believe this to be the case. It just doesn't seem reasonable that a NCAA College Football National Championship team was centered on a guy just winging it or one who required an immense amount of time to digest the plays and only with the aid of other people. Furthermore, if this did occur, Young and his agent would know this going in and would have ample time to properly prepare for the test or asked that its format be sufficiently changed to respond to his disability, i.e. replace letters and numbers with pictures of dollar signs.

What really happened is that Vince Young is fucking retarded. He is either too stupid to pass the test, even after knowing all the answers going in, or he is too God damn arrogant to even try. I would rather he be stupid, because stupid can be loveable, endurable and even successful, on the other hand, conceit and arrogance in an untested pro is a recipe for a broken leg and motorcycle accident. Can a stupid person succeed at Quarterback? Yes, Dan Marino is not a smart man, however he was an incredible athlete and he a natural savvy when it came to the game, then again, he never did win a Super Bowl, so maybe stupid does have some limitations. Can a conceited, arrogant and largely unproven Quarterback succeed in the NFL? Probably not, but it does help if your last name is Manning.

gth

Andy, Say It Ain't So...Say It Ain't So, YOU STUPID FAT FUCK

Andy Milonakis is going on thirty? If this is true--and if Wikipedia and IMDB say so, you know it has to be possibly-almost-maybe-who-knows true--then I am done. I am actually invested in Andy being an offensively stupid teenager; the world will be somehow less vibrant if it turns out he is a man-child pimping his cursed existence for fifteen minutes of fame.

However, the biggest problem might be me: I did just spend a half hour researching his condition, going over message board posts and reminiscing about how gay the Super Bowl truly is. I can accept Santa being a fag, the Easter Bunny being a polygamist and The Toot Fairy being my molester, but I cannot live in a world where Andy isn't a cherubic teenage moron. I just can't.

Human Garbage Disposal 1, Humanity 0

Shoot this mother fucker in the head, burn his corpse and spread his ashes over a trash dump.

gth

Not Enough Caffeine and Too Much J.R.R.

You ever wake up and just want to hit somebody in the face? Me too, though the real question is: have you ever woken up and wanted to eviscerate a smarmy elf? Really? I am the only one?

gth

If Vaginas Could Talk

During my daily anthropological study of the human condition--watching The Maury Povich Show--I witnessed a very disturbing commercial. It was one of the most horrific scenes that I have ever witnessed. My mind, disturbed as it is, could not grasp the nightmarish landscape presented in the thirty second spot. Vaginal Menopausal Atrophy Study flashed across the screen, below it flowed a steady stream of middle aged women participating in various innocuous activities: one was gardening; another was sitting down; a group of them appeared to be praying to Satan. Ok, the first two are made up, but you know what I am talking about.

The blessed minded Bob did not know a vagina could atrophy, and if the vagina could wither like a winter blooming daisy, would not the same hold true for the penis. Will my penis begin to atrophy...holy shit...I don't got that much to begin with, it wouldn't take long for my little daisy to completely disappear. Think of it, my lil' buddy would shrink to nothingness, perhaps even caving unto itself, thus creating a vagina for a middle aged me. I am not sure I could stand losing my mini-Cyclops, he almost feels like he is a part of me.

gth

Attack of The Conservative Dead

I am deeply enamored with Ann Coulter. She is witty, brilliant and a total bitch; three must-have qualities in a woman. However, this is not a flattering picture of Ann at her recent speaking engagement at Denison. I honestly don't believe this is the best photo avaliable to The Newark Advocate, one might even argue they purposely used an unflattering image--then again, I am talking about the worst regional newspaper in North America, which begs to reason that poor writing would be supported by equally shitty photography.

gth

F.Y.I.

You may have noticed my post concerning marriage contracts is missing, if anyone has the full text please send it to me so I can repost; apparently Blogger had a system error and deleted it..that or the man has finally gotten around to censoring me.

Even the whores object

Absolute awesome personified.

gth

Lupercalia and the bloody goats

Happy Valentine's Day. I am alone, embittered and bemoaning my lonely, bitter existence. In other words, it is like any other days but with chocolate. I hope everyone has a special someone to hold tight tonight, it is good to have someone to love, be it on this day or any other. Just remember: statistics suggest that you or your loved one has cheated, is cheating or will cheat. Are you the cuckold or the miserable son of a bitch? I can only hope both.

gth

I don't know what the fuck I am writing about

Please keep in mind that I am not a theoretical physicist and have read absolutely nothing about the subject, so the following is complete and utter bull-shit--which is pretty much par for the course on here.

Time and space are indivisible concepts, each working on a sort of planar logic. Neither is linear, though it is impossible to categorize them in anyway. Just as it is possible to travel from sport A to be spot B, it is equally feasible to travel from time A to time B. The only impediment is means and/or imagination. Now, with that piece of b.s. aside, here is the point of my post: since we know that matter is neither created nor destroyed, rather it is constantly transformed, I begin to question the reality of time travel. Since the building blocks of a person have--for all intents and purposes--always existed and will always exist, it seems to me that moving from one time to another is impossible; it would require same matter to exist simultaneously. Obviously, there is probably a scientific solution to this, but I begin to wonder what if all people, things, everything existed everywhere and every-when. In other words, I, Bob exist here now, before, then and forever. Absolute omnipresence (I know the term seems redundant but being everywhere and every when seems to require a little extra oomph) applies to us all, even the Polish. The problem is where is this unlimited reservoir of being, it seems that such a large surplus of unapplied matter would be detectable; my best guess it is located in a landfill near Scranton. Anyway, thanks for reading the ramblings of my recent show sojourn, you have to admit it beats masturbating with bar soap--f.y.i bar soap typically winds up in ones urethra and causes a not so minor amount of pain.

gth

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