After seeing this , I decided to pierce my clitoris.

Wish me luck.

Go to Hell

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

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.

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

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

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. )

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

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

While thinking about the ways that Alltel plans to screw me in the future, I came up with some brilliant film ideas. Last week I spoke about my love for the versus movie, at least concepetually speaking, and that same love inspired several movie ideas.

Here is my favorite one.


Mommy v. Daddy

This film would deal with the pending divorce of two high-strung yuppies and the little boy who asks "Why did daddy leave? Was it because of me?" The movie would begin with the usual Lifetime quality fair, with the mother & father arguing over who gets the summer home in Belize, and why did you have to sleep with the Mexican Nanny named Pedro. For the first thirty minutes the little boy wouldn't be mentioned at all, except for the occassional pan over to his cherubic tear lined face. Eventually mom & dad would run out of commodities to argue over and the custody of their son would come up. Deep down both parties, being innately selfish-bastards, don't want custody of their son. But, since their son was little more than a commodity clothed in flesh they battle out as to who is the more fit parent. The judge, in a moment of perfect clairy, decides the only fair way to determine who gets little Johnny is through Gladitor style combat. The next forty-minutes is dedicated to mommy & daddy bludegoning one another to death in a suburbia styled arena, surrounded with razor sharp white picket fence. Using various implements, such as the weed whacker & Arnold Palmer golf clubs, the two sides are abley equipped in seeking each others demise. At the climax the parents, and the audience, is horrified to learn that not only custody was at stake, but the fate of Johnny's very life is up for grabs. The judge, in another brilliant moment of clarify, decided to spice things up a bit and place Johnny in a cage suspended above a pit of boiling vanilla pudding. If a victor wasn't decided in the next two minutes, Johnny was going to be a boiled pudding pop.

The next minute sees both sides fighting with all their mettle, with many apparent death blows being exhanged. Yet, neither side will fall even after a prodigious loss of blood. All the while Johnny is screaming in the background "Why is daddy hitting mommy with my Louisville slugger, WHY DADDY, WHY?" With only thirty seconds left on the Johnny-is-going-to-die clock, mommy & daddy realize something very important; they can both go adopt a little Cambodian boy and live another day. So, the two parents exhange forced pleasantries and walk out of the arena. Shortly thereafter Johnny is lowered into the boiling pudding and his last words are "Daddy, mommy don't you love me?"

Of course for it to be a true versus movie, there must be an ambigious ending. The movie closes with little Johnny's pudding covered hand shooting forth from the bubbling Cosby-sanctioned mass.

El Fin


Brilliant, right?

Go to Hell

The Devil, Me & Verizon Wireless


I learned long ago that life is not fair. I remember the exact moment this became clear; it was during my sophomore year of high school when I was cut from the junior varsity basketball team. I am the first to admit that I was far from the best player, nor was I the most athletic, but I did try my hardest, out hustled nearly everyone and never complained one bit. All of this would have been moot if I had been the worst player on the team, but I wasn't. One of the kids picked in front of me, was more athletic, much less inclined to work hard and only marginally better than myself. He also quit one week later. Why? Because he couldn't care less about the team, he just tried out as a lark. I knew this would happen when they chose him over me, as did many other people, including a couple assistant coaches. He had a bad attitude, poor ball handling skills and non-existent jump shot, apparently his thirty-six inch vertical made up for those failings. Or, maybe it didn't. So, yes Virginia there is no Santa Claus and your father is diddling the babysitter.

How does this pertain to today's post? It really doesn't, save for the fact that I am well aware of how cruel and unjust the world can be. But not even a jaded soul, like me, could have imagined what occurred today. My cellular phone company, Verizon Wireless, had all of its local numbers drastically changed. How exactly? Whereas my number, along with everyone else, in the area had local phone numbers, they are now considered long distance. Meaning if you want to call me from an Alltel owned land line, which is virtually every land line in a twenty-five mile radius, you have to dial 1-740 and incur long distance charges. What the fuck is that? I called Verizon and they blamed Alltel, citing competitive "differences", and since we all know that Alltel is the Devil, I believe it. Guess what? It doesn't fucking matter what the reason is, my phone number is basically inaccessible to anyone but other cellular users. I can't receive local calls.

Verizon said they would change my number, but at this time there were none available as they were negotiating to purchase more from Alltel. I am not going to hold on my breath on that one. To make matters worse I am locked in a two-year contract with Verizon (I know, stupid me) and the buy-out is something ridiculous like $250.00, even though I actually paid for my phone over a year ago. And, to make matters even worse, if I did opt to buy out the contract and choose another carrier, I still have to change numbers, since my number will forevermore be long distance.

Somehow my number exists in the void, where it is local to none and foreign to all. God hates me. Can you blame him?


Go to Hell

I took down last night's posts because they were made me sound like a little bitch. I am all for being a bitch, in fact I plan on voting an all Bitch ticket in November, but being a little bitch just ain't kosher. And, after watching Euro Trip, which is actually pretty funny, I decided that angst ridden guilt is meant only for teenage girls, hair dressers and the French.

I am still not terribly happy with the parental units, and mother didn't help her case by referring to me as a little faggot pussy in the twenty plus voice mail messages she left today, but she has called me worse, which doesn't really make me feel better but it does provide a fairly substantial case for matricide.

I made some demands of daddy dearest, actually an ultimatum would be closer to the truth, and he agreed to abide by them. I seriously don't believe he will, however he is the male progenitor of the seed that created the man, the myth, the Bob so I am giving him a chance. And, if he does revert back to his semi-dishonest and unscrupulous ways, I am going to kick him in the nuts and move to Peru.

Oh and want to insure one particular person, whose mother entrusted some very valuable merchandise to the auction, that whatever misgivings I have about dad's methodology, he does it in order to generate higher prices. In other words, he is a cad, but one who bilks to the buyer, not the seller, i.e. your mother. And, assuming he doesn't get kicked in the nuts, I promise that the pieces will do better with me than anywhere else. Cause I am kick-ass, and have access to dad's black book of old people with too much money who like to spend it on stuff from their youth even though they will soon be dead.



Go to Hell