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