He will live forever on TNT

God Speed Lenny.

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I Don't Rue Today

The lights are back on. All is right with the world. Bob is happy, or at least as happy as a misanthropic lard-ass can be.

Apparently in a Sex-Ed program, focusing on marriage is detrimental to children from non-traditional families--which is code for single parent and polygamous households. Here is to a nation of emotionally stunted children, who don't know what happened to daddy but are very secure in their own sexual promiscuity.

This is an old issue, but it still makes me smile at how inanity rules the day in the hippieverse. Amnesty International fails to realize that guns kill people too; I am betting a shotgun shot to the chest poses more threat of permanent injury and death than a taser.

Quote of the Day: This is not a crackhouse. (Mother in response to the little brother's assertion that the house smelled like a crackhouse)

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Sacrilege On His Birthday Is Bad
My Power Being Out Is Worse

Bob doesn't have power. It looks as if he won't have power till Sunday evening. Bob is unhappy. He wonders why AEP employees--the minions of the local Electric monopoly--are allowed to celebrate Christmas tomorrow, when he, most beloved child of Krishna, is forced to endure in the darkness. Perhaps it is asking too much for my eletricity to be on Christmas Day. Perhaps I should be thankful for what I have. Perhaps Brittany Spears isn't a trailer trash whore gone good. Perhaps I don't give a flying fuck--I WANT MY ELECTRICITY TURNED ON YESTERDAY, though any time in the next four hours would suffice.

This post is a call to arms to all of the Non-Christian, hell bound workers at AEP: If you are Jewish, Muslim, Mormon, Agnostic, Atheist, Buddhist, Hindu or member of any other polytheistic and/or pagan tradition--see Catholicism--please report to work and turn on Bob's electric. God hates you very much and Jesus isn't terribly pleased with you, either. You are not invited to his birthday, but I, most beloved of the flatulent sinners, offer you a chance for redemption: TURN ON MY POWER within the next five hours and automatically get into Heaven. (This offer doesn't apply to Sodomites, Cunnilingers and the Welsh.)


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This post was written from parts unknown, i.e. here.

Why the Islamic Terrorists Hate Us

Three words that should never be put together: Yoga Booty Ballet.

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The Meaning of Friendship

Friend: You know Bob, you are looking a little overweight. You need to be active, to do something with yourself.

Me: I am touched.

Friend: What?

Me: You are the first person to ever call me a "little overweight." Usually they just call me fat ass and wish me a good day.

Friend: You need help.

Me: Not when I have concerned friends like you, asshole.

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What has the (virtual) world come to?

$26,500 for a tropical island, sounds too good to be true, right? Of course it is, because this piece of volcanic rock doesn't actually exist in the real world; it is a piece of a virtual real estate found in the MMORPG Project Entropia. After reading this article, which details this act of fiscal irresponsibility, I am taken aback by three facts:

1. Australians have internet connections.
2. That it is plausible that David Storey, the nut in question, could make a profit off of leasing virtual mining & hunting rights.
3. There are people--educated people, mind you--who study the economies of virtual worlds.

I am not so sure about intelligent life on Earth, but if it is to be found, I am now betting it will be discovered in a video game.

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I will never be able to afford wasting $26,500 in a year--college doesn't count, since I already graduated, however, if I did have that kind of money it would be wasted on pizza, porn and pork products.

Puppet Master V. Demonic Toys

Remember Corey Feldman, well this is what he does now.

I am a semi-fan of the Puppet Master series, so I am actually going to sit through this Sci Fi Original, that and I don't have a social life--my Saturday's are empty from now until ad infinitum.

By the way, Vanessa Angel is still hot and she still can't act, too. I miss the days of Weird Science (T.V. Series) and the lotion aided glory that came with watching Vanessa Angel playact as a computer jinni.


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Too Much Caffenine, Too Little Life to Live

I have a great idea. A thought that will change the course of human history; mankind will forevermore be in my debt after sharing this plan. People will say: "Where did Bob learn of such an idea? It is as if he sat at the foot God and learned his divine wisdom." Brace yourself, seriously, make sure you are sitting down or holding on to something for support, because here it is.

We need to oxygenate space. Imagine for a moment, if you will, filling the vacuous void with clean, crisp Terran air. Instead of swimming in the oceans and risking the wrath of Great White Sharks and Giant Squids, we will now be able to swim through space; to sit at doorstop of heaven and hear the Angelic Chorus sing of impossible possibilities.

Now I know that it will take a a lot of air to fill the infinite void that is space, but we have plenty of it on Earth to go around. I figure if everyone learns to take really shallow breathes, Oxygenated Space can be a reality within my lifetime or so the Devil-Goat tells me.

For the very first time, Space will be a breath of fresh air.

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Corrective Racism

Me: Loading furniture sucks...I don't like this part of the business

Dad: Yea, there is a lot of nigger work in the antique business.

I considered scolding him for being a racist, but that has yet to work, so I went with another strategy.

Me: Dad, you told me that blacks were lazy and, by in large, wished only to live off of government aid.

Dad: Yea, they are no good.

Me: If blacks are lazy, then how is loading furniture "nigger" work? You have told me, time and again, that they (Africoons) don't work unless forced to, and then, only for short periods of time; therefore how can any sort of labor--physical or otherwise-- be associated with them (Antique Farm Equipment). Isn't black the antithesis of work--or was that white.

Dad: What are you trying to say?

Me: Well, I know of a very industrious race, a group of people that work hard and often find themselves engaged in menial, physical labor. Perhaps you should have said "Yea, there is a lot of wetback work in the antique business."

Dad: I like that. I like that a lot, son. Let’s go get lunch, I am buying.


Racism--The key to a good father-son relationship.

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A Moment of Self Indulgence

A young lady, her sister and mother decided to shop in my store. The mother was old, the sister was frumpy (lard ass) and the young lady was cute--in an East Coast, no breasts to speak of way. They spent an inordinate amount of time (thirty minutes)--the store front is 15 x 10', at most--looking over our wares, however; I was willing to forgive their malfunctioning internal clocks, since, as I said earlier, the young lady was relatively attractive. I attempted to engage in small talk with the young lady, sadly the only thing that to mind was "hello." She nodded in acknowledgment, or was it a stifled sneeze; regardless, "hello" was the extent our conversation.

Several minutes later the fat sister smiled at me, which has to count for something--especially for lonely, fat me. The mother, apparently dismayed at the obvious lust the obese daughter was showing, deemed it time to go. The sans breast girl brought up her purchase, several political pins and I proceeded to write up a ticket.

Earlier in the afternoon, mother gave me a Slim Jim in lieu of allowing me to go to lunch. I greedily chewed it down, as if it was the last piece of beef jerky in the world. For whatever reason, call it kismet if you wish, the Slim Jim meal didn't sit well with my ironclad stomach. My daily diet has killed lesser men: I am the eater of 5,000 daily calories, the drinker of three Mt. Dew two-liters in ninety seconds, the swallower of week old, unrefrigerated pizza. Yet, this single strand of jerky would not sit still; my gut rumbled like laughing belly of Ganesh. It would know gastric freedom and so it did.

Right as I was telling the pretty, flat-chested New Englander her total, I violently exhaled an unholy air--which reeked of stale Slim Jim and rotten eggs--right into her face. In other words, I belched in the pretty girl's face.

We finished the transaction in silence, though her fat-ass whore of a sister laughed like a retarded bitch, while her mother simply shook her head in disgust.

The store made $3.00; I lost what little remained of my self respect.

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