Highlight Of The Day...

Riding one of those electric shopping carts for old people at Target.
Actually, it wasn't that fun. It made a really loud beeping every time I tried to back up,
and my girlfriend loaded it up with so much shit, that I was afraid that I was going to tip over.

And it made me feel really short.

The Xerox Machine Is Out Of Paper...

Well, considering that I can't finish anything that I've been writing, I'll just post the ultimate unfinished crapola that I have so far and leave you alone...

Oh, and I have a new post here.

Bunny Rabbit...

Discussed this weekend plans for my birthday. Camping at Joshua Tree it is. Doesn't sound that bad. I love camping. Well, whenever I do it, that is. It'll be fun. Mellow. Some rock climbing, coyote-dodging, beer-drinkin. Last time I went, I cheated. I went the X amount of miles back into town to get more gas so that I could explore inside the park more, replinish the dwindling beer and ice supply, and get an ice cream. I cheated. Who cares?


Monday...

Aww, crap - It's Monday - but you knew that already, huh? You're sitting at your computer at work or at home, making the computer rounds. This is all that you're going to get right now. I should be trying to sleep. I had a couple other things that I was going to write about, but I ditched them. They just didn't feel right. You need to let me know hoe your day is going. You need to let me know what's wrong with your day so far and what's right. Tell me about your weekend and tell me how much you love me. Tell me that the plane ticket is in the mail or that you're coming to pick me up. Tell me that the warm weather today is just a fluke and that it'll go back to being chilly just the way I fooking like it. I'm not the typical Southern Californian boy. I hate warm weather. It makes me miserable. I don't really go to the beach anymore. I used to go everyday. How the hell did I make that happen? I used to skate everyday. Ummm...now, I skate to my car pin the driveway. Well, when my ankle isn't broken, I mean. I haven't been writing on my screenplays. I'm a shit. A shitty shit shit. Stop nodding your head, yo.

So, it's Monday. Eat lunch yet? Thinking about what you have to or want to do when you get home? Pick up the kid? The dry cleaning? Or pick up the kid at the dry cleaners? Or dry clean the kid? I used to work at a dry cleaners, so I shouldn't complain. Damn, Nigga - could I tell you stories about that. Man, what's happening to me right now? I'm not even feeling uncreative; I'm just a tad bit too apathetic at the moment. I'm not feeling it. That's okay, though...I've got all tomorrow to hit you over the head with my vile verbosity. What? I don’t know. You know I'm bored if I just wished that a pizza man would come to the door. If I'm thinking of food, then that means something's wrong. Barbecue, yes. But all other food? I must be coming down with something. Maybe a SARS-induced delirium. Man, first thing my ankle gets good enough to walk on - I need to get the hell out of here. Somewhere quick. Even for a day. Disneyland doesn't count. This is a horrible post. I hate it, but won't erase it. I've already done that tonight.


How Now Brown Cow...

It runs like the most tiring nazi nigger hell Jesse Owens race.

All sweating pride

Dripping unnoticed

While the dictators mustache is dry

King Arthur lay rotting in a prison cell
Charles Manson authored rot in his

Beats
Streets
And
Songs incomplete

We can only make
Monsters of ourselves.

Honda...

I swear that this town is being overrun by fucking retards in rice-burners. You know what those are - the noisy ass, lowered, usually ugly, fucking sporty import cars. You know the ones with all of the tacky-ass accessories and lighting? These shit-balls seem to be traveling in packs now. The bass from their stereos rattle my house and the sound of their spoilers bite my ass. I just might have to possibly tell somebody to shut the fuck up and to slow the hell down with a baseball bat soon.

And to think that I was going to write about Spiderman before the last car came buzzing up my street.

War Blogs...

What's up with our recent fixation on barbecues. huh? Now all of the paper towels are gone. Got all worked up Friday talkin' about steak and strippers at three in the morning, and then opted for barbecuing the next day. No strippers. Gay, dude. And stupid ass bills and rent are all due soon and I'm broke because of this fucking ankle. Fuck.

Okay, everybody line up, so that I can punch you all in the nuts.

Sperm...

If I were a father, I would not be watching Howard Stern on E. The entertainment network, not the drug, thank you. My ankle probably wouldn't be broken. I wouldn't be typing about this. I would have a better job. There would be milk in the house. You know, scratch that - I've read that there really aren't benefits to drinking milk, that it's all corporate propaganda. If I were a father, I would expect, at least, half of the action figures that I have in my room to be broken.

If I were a father, I would post pictures of my kid...with a machete. No, I wouldn't - but I would have my kid guest-write every once in a while. Actually, I'd give him his own blog. I would let em' wear his or her hair however they wanted. I would expose em' to all kinds of music. Most of it. I would teach them about Henry and Ribsy, Beezus and Romona, Sheila The Great, Super Fudge, Narnia, Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket, Dick and Jane, Dr. Seuss, Charles Bukowski, and National Geographic. My kid would teach me why the sucky-ass cartoons on Nickelodeon are appealing to him or her.

If I were a father, I wouldn't change my style of dress. They better like black. I would teach them that the white man is the enemy. I would make them listen to Radiohead. I would have them do the grocery shopping. I would teach them how to fall asleep in class without getting caught. I would teach them how to be a good person, but a rabid dog if somebody fucked with you. I would teach them how to drive in case Daddy happened to fall asleep at the wheel. I would teach them how to sign my name. I would play the guitar for them. I would play video games with em'. I would teach em' how to get along with women. It wouldn't matter if my kid were a boy or a girl; this is a necessary survival technique for any gender.

If I were a father, the space next to me would always be theirs, if only they could move their mom out of the way. I would expose them to oldies. You need oldies. It's the only listenable music on the radio. I would teach them to be polite to old folk, but to be a rabid dog if somebody fucked with them. I would teach them not too kill bugs if they could help it. I would encourage them to not eat paste in school. I would tell them to pick off the smallest kid in dodge ball at school. I would always tell them to give mom a hug, but to save the best ones for me. I would teach them how to throw a proper "Nut-Punch". I would not let them browse the Internet. I would cook for them, and if they didn't like what I made, I'd be more than welcome to throw a cookbook at them. I would tell them to avoid drinking keg beer out of plastic cups at parties. I would tell them to play in a band, but not for too long if you're not making money off of it.

If I were a father, they would always take out the trash. I would encourage a wandering mind. I would give em' noogies, but from the first day that they tell me to knock-it-the-fuck-off...I would. We would both know the lyrics to Travis' "The Man Who" album. I would send them to mom whenever they got hurt. I would teach them how to make paper airplanes. I would teach them how to make spit wads. I would tell them to use a dictionary more than I do. I would tell them that they had to know how to read by the time that they were in preschool, and if they didn't - I'd throw them into the toilet where the poo poo man lives. I'd teach them that it was okay not to see a movie on its first weekend release. I would tell them to start off as an intern at a movie studio to get their foot in the door- any studio, just as long as it wasn't anything porn. I'd tell them that they had to go see The Beastie Boys once, at least. I'd tell them to join Drama Class, but only for a little bit, so that the weirdos don't get too you. I would have their voice on the answering machine. I'd tell them that when a phone solicitor asked for the man of the house, to always answer, "This is he".

I would tell them to keep on typing this while Daddy goes and checks the sprinklers (smokes secretly). Naw, I don't want to be smokin'. A smokin' hot dad, hell yeah. I'd tell them all about Spiderman's troubled relationship with Mary Jane Watson Parker. I'd tell them to speak to all animals and plants like they were real people. I'd give them storybook records as Christmas stocking stuffers. I wouldn't encourage them to try out for sports in high school. I would discourage them from joining "band". I would encourage them to use "maam" and "sir" along with "fucker" and "dumbass". I would tell them that if a dot com resurgence comes along, to take the money, save, and run. Fast. I would paint pictures with them and hang them on the living room wall. I would teach them all the magic tricks that I know. I would teach them how to play poker. I would teach them how to spit far. I would teach them how to fix things. I would teach them how to strangle their mother and not leave bruises. I would teach them how to fish. I would tell them how to steer conversations into their favor.

I would teach them that there are a lot of sucky-ass things in the world, but that I think that there are more beautiful things out there than the sucky. I would teach them that no matter what happens, and how much the life-hand can slap you in the face - that nothing bad would really ever happen to them, and that if good things aren't happening at the moment...they'll eventually get there.

And I'd teach them to tell their father to get the hell to sleep at later hours like these, cuz' there's playing to be done tomorrow. Adventures, mischief, and madness, yo.

Or at least Cup O' Noodles, Beer, and bad TV...

Short Order Cook...

Man, do you remember that one freak that answered the "roommate wanted" ad that you posted up at the local college? You were desperate and you needed somebody in there fast. He was short. Big ass nose. Kinda like Tim Roth, but ugly as hell. He was a cook at a local burger place, hey, now wasn't the time to be judgemental - remember, you needed his money.

The first warning sign was that when he moved in, it took him about fifteen mintues. And that was with a cigarette break. Second warning sign? You used to hear him talking to Captain Kirk as he was watching Star Trek. "Yeah, go Kirk!".

He only lasted about a month and a half. He just got weirder and weirder, til you couldn't take it anymore. Then, you thought he stole some money from you, you almost choked him to death, and then he threatened to send the Mexican Mafia on you. He was Irish.

Yeah, I remember him. What a dumbass...

What The Hell...

audblog audio post

Dear God(s)...

I'm sorry for whatever I did to deserve this horrible feeling in my belly. I'm a recipient of poo karma today. Anyway, if I had a hundred dollars right now to spend on foolish things, it couldn't go towards anything useful - cuz that's no fun, I'd spend the hundred bucks on as many comic books, beer, cigarettes, and Hello Kitty stickers as I could. That would be fun. Now I'm depressed. Somebody come over, drink with me, and play video games. I'll give you a back rub. I'll go forever too. I won't try to cop out of it after the first five minutes either. Or let's write a story tonight. You can write all the sexy parts.

Assignment For The Day...

To call someone "Bubba".



Thank you...

My Xanadu...

No particular reason, but if I lived in Australia, I'd save all of my money and buy the whole damn island. Got that right, Bub. Australia seems nice. They have wonderful exports. Nicole Kidman. Naomi Watts. That one book...what was it called? Cold Beer and Crocodiles, or something like that. Koalas are cute. And they hate Rabbits. They eat chocolate Bilbys instead for Easter. Don't ask me to explain what a Bilby is, I don't have the time, it's late.

But this is what I want...all of Australia. Nothing else. I'll keep on producing the occasional hot actress, I won't ruin the environment, I'll keep out of world politics, I'll just use the government funds for building a force field and for making toys. Yeah, It'll be the real island of misfit toys. I'll grow a beard, because somehow, I don't think It'd be right for me to be a nutcase who owns an island without having the obligatory, long, white beard.

Oh, and drunk Koalas. And cybernetic Kangaroos controlled by Chimpanzees that sit in their pouches.

Fosters. Australian for beer, mate.

Thank you.

My Bozzie Award...

I forgot to tell you that I won the...

"EXCUSE ME WHILE I POO
DID YOU KNOW POO BACKWARDS IS OOP?
OOP, I GOTTA POO
MY MOTHER JUST ATE MY DOG
'SCUSE ME WHILE I SMOKE AND POO
AND GOOK BACKWARDS IS KOOG
AND HALF A GOOK IS GO OR OK
EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO OK" Award yesterday...

Bow before me...

Soft With An Eyeball Invading Undertone...

Besides the Academy Awards, The Bozzies, and the war in Iraq. It's been a really boring day. But just leave it to one of western thinking to list a bunch of things happening in the world and to tell you how boring the day was. It's like saying how much you hate your car after taking an awesome roadtrip. Did that make sense? If it doesn't that's okay, because my little sister says I am officially a Godfather now...

Harry Cash Malone. That makes him co-captain of the next Malone wave. Milo Malone is hanging somewhere in Brooklyn. Him and his little four year old self. I can't wait until the inevitable family reunion where the next generation of Malone's comes up to me as I'm smoking in the backyard and asks me what the hell happened? Why are all of these old people so weird?

I'll tell him I have no clue, but I'm sure glad he's here...

Then we'll go play...

That's it.

Can I Open My Eyes Yet?...

The Bozzies are here....

?...

I have nothing to say right now.

Wondering Again...

Who in a fight?
The Swiss Army or The Salvation Army or Swiss Family Robinson?

Just Wondering...

Who would win in a bare-knuckle fist fight:
Rumsfield or Powell, or Mr. Howell, for that matter...

Have A Good Weekend, You Jerks...

I want the mob to contact me.
I'll work for them. I need money.
Maybe I should show them this,
then they'll hire me, huh?

p.s. The Bozzies will be presented at 9pm est Sunday night March 23, 2003!!!
Then after his awards ceremony, we'll hit the gay bars.

The Gombe National Preserve In Tanzania...

Fiona Apple loves Lemony Snicket. Where the hell's she been lately, by the way? David Blaine broke her heart. He must have done a magic trick and made it disappear, I guess. Never trust a magic user, I say. Ask any wood elf. My foot gets all purple when it's cold. Then i have to hike it up on permanent Rockette duty or like Jenna Jameson. The I bring it back down and then it gets all purple again. It's never-ending cycle folks. It's like Sisyphus on a Schwinn. Is that two n's on Schwinn? Am I related to em'? Hmmm...might have to check that out, yo.

I like magic tricks, didja know that? Of course you don't. Uh oh. Madonna's playing now. Get into the groove. Very eighties. It reminds me of riding my bike and singing this song. Better than being a young boy and singing "Like A Virgin" as you're pedaling past Michael Jackson's front gates. And on whose blog did they say that they liked Mike and that he should just live in Vegas permanently? He could make a crapload of moolah performing in Vegas. He'd fit right in, and if freaks like Liza, Celine, and Siegfried and Roy can do Vegas duty and make a living - Mike can too. Maybe he'd get in less trouble. Maybe he'd start dangling "Blanket" off of the Startosphere, though. I hope you all are following my ramblings, cuz if you ain't - then catch up before you get too far behind.

I'll be right back. Hold on. I'm back. I had to go chase a Possum away. How he got into the house, I don't know. Just kidding, I just had to go chase this monkey on my back away. A cigarette later, and he's gone. That was easy. Uh oh...y' hear that? No. Over there. In the trees. No that tall one. He's lookin' at me. Okay, let's continue - but if he starts flinging poo - I'm outta here.

I think that my little sister's personal boycott of Fat Free Milk is over. She got offended because I called my mother a bad name. I need to learn how to speak more Vietnamese. I only know, like, three things, and how to say "horny old goat". That's it, folks. I must've looked pretty gooky today, beacuse all I did for a good portion of the day was sleep. Then when I woke up, my eyes looked normal again. My father is the whitest guy in the universe. Quite the handsome man, though for a guy of 65 years. I wonder how he's doin'? Probably gearing up for another fishing tournament. I remember when I was young and my parent's were still together, how when we'd go on fishing trips, after we'd get home, my mother would spread out some newspapers on the kitchen floor and slide the cooler full of live fish next to her, grab her big ol' hatchet thingy and start fish head choppin'. I'd look on in amazement as she hacked away. Fish bodies would be flopping everywhere. Then she'd take the knife and scale it, gut it, save the eggs, if they had any, and sometimes save some of the heads if she wanted to make a soup later. Can you imagine being a four or five year old kid and wondering what smelled so good simmering on the stove top, lifting the lid off of the pot and finding fish heads looking up at you? I'd sometimes sip at the broth, but never touched the heads. That was my mom's deal. Picking at a fish head. That was all her. She was a great cook. Mexican food too. But sometimes, certain dishes got too much for my father and he'd round up all of the kids and take us to Carl's Jr. or Pizza Hut.

Do you guy's remember when Pizza Hut used to be a family restaurant? They had tables, booths, waitresses, and a bar. Video games and jukeboxes too. God, I loved going there. Now? Feh! Yukky poo. I used to work at a Pizza Buffett-type-Shaky's kinda restaurant owned by a family of Christian freaks. And I could cook up the best Mojo potatoes around, let me tell ya. But I'm not too proud of that, because I was living in the bosses RV behind the store. It was leaky, cold and pretty scary. I'd peer at the Mexicans digging through the dumpsters at night, looking for cardboard to recycle. They should've killed me and sold my kidneys on the black market.

When I have more money, I'm thinking of making a batch of Fat Free Milk t-shirts, my neighbor has a printing company, so I'll be able to swing them pretty cheap, I think. I also want to buy Fatfreemilk.com when all of my debt calms down. That would make me very happy. As a fooking clam.

I think I'm going to lay off of watching the news tomorrow. It's kind of avoidable, though. But, I'm going to try. It's just another big "Monkey War". Desmond Morris' hairless monkeys fighting over the same old things. Territory, resources, and bananas. What? Well, I bet we've fought over bananas somewhere, sometime.

Okay, you god damn simpleton simians. I've got to go and hang at another monkey's tree for a bit. Take care of yourself and try not to sleep too much.

Hoot! Hoot!

Mr. Rourke...

Okay, who has tattoos? I don't have any. Never really got around to the grand masterpiece that I wanted. A guy I work with just got these prison-looking anchor tats on his forearms. Dude...c'mon, gay? Yes. Very. I have a couple of pierced nipples, though. I put peanut butter on them and let my dog, "Skippy" lick it off.

So where are your tattoos, you heathens? When'd you get them and what the hell are they. And all the girls with tattoos of butterflies or an asian symbol on the small of their back, need not reply. You buttholes.

Da' plane, boss...da' plane...

War Baseball Cards...

Okay. Not that it hasn't been done before, but I mean, somebody needs to fucking drink with me. I mean REALLY needs to fucking drink with me. Not tonight, because, today was weird and full of hospital financial visits, and an old, nice lady pushing me down a hallway in a wheelchair. Not mine, but the hospitals. I keep on wanting to type in HOLIDAY instead of hospital. I don't know why.

But, really guys. I want to go fucking nuts tomorrow day or night. I want to sit around and drink everything possible and just talk about bullshit. I want to talk til the morning. Play Castle Risk. Solve a video game. Write a screenplay from scratch. Bring out the old G.I. Joe figures. Saddam can be Sgt. Slaughter. Bush can be fucking Lobot. I want to dance. I want to skate. I want to read comic books. I want to slow dance with you, then, maybe we can hold each other in our underwear and open-mouth kiss each other...

I Am Jack's Lack Of Drive...

So I brought the wheelchair that I keep in the backyard inside finally. It was inside before, but my gal got sick of it and there wasn't any other place to put it. I bought it at the Salvation Army for twenty bucks when I used to have money. I've always wanted one since I saw one in a store when I was 19. I am so ready to try out for the Wheelchair Basketball Association now. I'm actually pretty good. I can do wheelies forever, spin around in circles and run over things. Before I broke my ankle, I was going to have Joe videotape me careening down the grass hill at the park across the street from my house. Hurting myself is always inevitable, so I guess I jumped out of a car instead, and just saved myself the suspense.

What the hell was the point of this?...???

Oh. Yeah. I just did something that one can only dream of. Olympic medals? Bah! Painting a great work of art? Double Bah! Feeding the hungry? Thrice Bah! Anything noble? Googleplex Bah!

I was playing a video game in front of that big ass TV in my wheelchair tonight...I pressed pause...slowly wheeled to the kitchen, opened up the fridge...and got myself a beer...and then wheeled back to play video games again.

Thank you.

Pork Chop Sandwich...

Isn't that gross? I was at a little diner-type/fast food window thing today and I saw that advertised. I have a cast-iron stomach and all, but that's gross, yo.

So, my ultimate Fat Free Thanks to Amy of Get To The Choppa fame. I just recieved a get well/boredom present from her. Very, very cool. I heard a thump at the door, so I one-legged-hopped to the door ready to kick some ass and the mailman put the package under the door. I kicked it out into the street thinking that it was a bomb. Never, ever, steal an Al-Queada member's girlfriend folks. You'll be paranoid for life. Anyway, after I got the package back, I opened it up and started to squeal like Ned Beatty's gay Vietnamese, pot-bellied pig. Inside was a cute page from a coloring book ( with crayons wrapped in a ribbon ). Ummm...awesome cookies...little oragami star ribbons, a mix cd, a simpsons coloring program, jelly beans...and that's it. i hope I didn't forget anything.

That's why, dudes - Amy is the queen of swing. That's why she's Chopparific. She's the best. I encourage all to visit her and say hello. Tell her that she rocks ghost socks.

I spoke with her, Boz, who is having the first annual Bozzie Awards this Sunday, Atl Superstar, Danee, and Angelo on AIM yesterday. My apologies for having to hop on out real quick and not having the chance to talk to Danee and Angelo. I had to go. I'll make it up to them.

Praise to the Chop.

t h e b l u e b i r d ...

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski

Raw! Houghh! Good God, Y'All...What Is It Good For?...

Absoulutely nothin', say it again.

Dude, this hamburger needs to go back on the grill.

Nous Avons Casser Des Nouvelles...

Fritures stupides. Juste ne boycottez pas le dressage de ranch, ok? Mon estomac sent peu un queasy. J'ai obtenu mon premier contrôle d'incapacité aujourd'hui, il n'est pas beaucoup, gens. Mais il est meilleur que rien, et je suis heureux que j'aie de bons amis que comme moi et savez réellement les choses au sujet de la façon dont la société travaille et de la façon retirer les avantages d'être un boiteux. Je ne sais rien au sujet des lois, des règles, et des contrats sociaux. S'il se produit dans une jungle, désert, forêt, ou espace extra-atmosphérique - que moi pourrais savoir à son sujet. Je trouve intéresser de primatology. Je n'ai envoyé aucun de mes prix de jour de Kevynn Malone, parce que j'ai été me suis cassé - mais peut-être je puis maintenant. Je fais très bien aujourd'hui. Comment allez-vous? Amusez-moi ou je vous cognerai dans les écrous.

Grâce à Chezpink.

The Bozzie Awards...

This Sunday at The Grand Ennui.
I think I'm up for an award...and that scares me.

Another Reason Why I'm A Jerk...

I was watching a MSNBC segment on this:

ATLANTA, March 16 — U.S. health officials on Sunday were analyzing samples from a mysterious respiratory illness described by the World Health Organization as “a worldwide threat.” While no cases have yet been reported in the United States, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention activated its emergency operations center for only the third time ever and hospitals across the country were put on alert.

“THIS IS an evolving problem,” Dr. Julie Gerberding, director of the CDC, said Sunday. WHO officials said the illness, called Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, has infected more than 150 people, mostly in southeast Asia. At least 9 people have died...

and caught myself thinking about The Simpsons...

Boz of The Grand Ennui Guest Post
That Should've Been Posted By Me A Long Time Ago,
But He Still Loves Me Anyway...

Here it is ...

The Kenneth V. Cole Fan Club News.

The last couple of months of my senior year in high school were really a drag, so I did what any self-centered young twerp would do, I started a fan club for myself.
Those were strange times, not the best of times, not the worst of times, just strange times
(((SLAP)))
Take that Charles Dickens.
Martin Luther King had just been murdered.
The Democrats were fighting among themselves to see who would take the place of the much feared and equally despised Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Meanwhile, Richard Nixon was saying “sock it to … me, sock it to … me?” on the television show Laugh-in, so at least we didn’t have to worry about him, the rat bastard.
And of course that silly little war was still raging over in Vietnam, and even though the town I grew up in was blue collar to the max, only one person that I knew, was killed in action, and that was Tom Yoklewicz, who dropped out of school at sixteen and died in Vietnam before the rest of us had even graduated from high school,
But I digress…
This is a post about me … me… me …
Like I said, I started a fan club for myself, and the amazing part was that about twelve people actually joined my little attempt at self-aggrandizement .
The members I remember were:
Jill Stephens the seventeen year old schoolgirl with the body of a woman, hubba hubba: and make no mistake about it, she was the real reason that I started the club, I had the major hots for her mind and body, and the fan club did actually result with me getting a date with her, but just one, self-aggrandizement can only take you so far, and the last I heard of Sweet Jill she had married some Navy loser six months after graduation, and lived happily ever after.

Greg Zmud: my best friend who I lost contact with because his soon to be wife hated my guts, I think she felt that I exerted some kind of mind control over Greg, and if there were to be any mind control exerted it would be her’s.

Doug Wong: my token oriental friend who either became a doctor or a drug addict, or both.

Bob Zechmiester: who had been a star athlete before, at the age of fifteen, jumping off the roof of his friend’s garage into an above ground swimming pool breaking his spine, or whatever it is you do your spine that paralyzes you. I think he became a teacher.

And Finally there was
Beth McKenzie: who had a stare that could make any hard-on shrivel up into next to nothing and quiver in fear. I have no doubt that she was a lesbian in training, and probably became quite adept at it.

And isn’t this post dragging on, and I haven’t even gotten to the point, which is …

The Kenneth V. Cole Fan Club News!
The KVCFCN was a newsletter I wrote just about every day from mid April till we graduated.
What is was was a non computerized version of my current blog, without the boobs, as written by a seventeen year old, the one and only hand written copy passed from member to member to member.
Member, heheheheh

Some of the highlights, well, maybe not highlights, but some of the things I can remember about the newsletter were:

Joe Smith, my choice for President in the 1968 election. Joe had just returned from Argentina after a 20 year holiday, and bore an almost sickening resemblance to Adolph Hitler, and was in fact Adolph Hitler, oh the sly satire on the political situation of the time.

Shlome Katz and Beylo Wemple, two characters that popped up whenever I needed a dupe or fall guy to make fun of, sort of the same role Kevynn plays today.

A lengthy plea of devotion to the then almost unknown Goldie Hawn, pledging my heart, my soul, my love, and all the money I had saved up from cutting lawns the summer before, if only Goldie would flash her Double AA ‘s at me. Even then I had a thing for celebrities, and their boobage thereof.

And of course their were bits and snippets of song lyrics from “I Feel Like I’m Fixing to Die Rag” to “Sock it to the Soul Man as he Boogaloo’s Down Funky Broadway.”
And I made the Boogaloo song title up, another bit of sly satire reflecting the popular music tastes of the time.

And now I am getting tired, read bored, so I will do a spell-check and ship this off to Mister Malone, and I bet that Kevynn will delete all the swear words, cause he is a prude that way, but I don’t care, it’s his life, and he has to lead it his way.
And as the Master, Frank Sinatra, once sang …
That’s life, that’s what all the people say
You’re riding high in April
And shot down in May.

Goodnight Doreen.

"Pissed Off Cyrus" Written By Tom Schmitt...


I just lost my cell phone.
I got this hooker in L.A., and we went to one of those pay-by-the-hour motels on the Sunset Strip. The hooker was kind of cute, but I spent too much time driving around trying to find the hottest one, before realizing that they all had something wrong with them. Sure their profile looks good, but straight on you realize one eye is smaller than the other, or they've got some weird nose thing going on, or broad shoulders. There wasn't a perfect one in the bunch, but then you figure if they were perfect, they'd either not be hooker's, or they'd be in Vegas, getting what they're worth.
I accepted the fact that the picking's were all mediocre, and I stopped on a corner with three girls all wearing short skirts and fishnets. I turned my radio down and rolled the passenger side window down, leaning over the seat to get a better look. The girls walked to the car, all of them speaking hooker cliché’s at once, "Hey, honey, what's up?" "You looking for a good time?" "You ain't no cop, is you?" "OOOO, you're cute!" I told them I wasn't a cop, and pointed at one of them, a mulatto, with short dark hair and a cherry red mini skirt, telling her that she'd do. I unlocked her door, pushed it open, and she climbed in, my car quickly smelling like her perfume, and almost disgusting mixture of peaches and pine.
She told me she knew of a little motel around the corner, and as I drove she said her name was Sophia, and that she moved here from Ohio, hoping to make it in acting, but realized that she could make more money hooking, so here she was. I had no response. I didn't care about her. I just wanted some pussy.
We got to the motel, parked, and I told her to wait in the car while I went to the office. I got a room for an hour, and the desk clerk handed me a key and a towel, mumbling something about keeping the room clean, as if they aren't dirty already. I retrieved the Trick from the car and we went to room 206. She asked me what I wanted, and I said "the Whole Shebang." She handed me a condom, and told me to wash my cock. I felt kind of offended by this, being that SHE was the hooker, so I told her that she needed to wash her snatch. She looked kind of surprised, but she did it. Then the games began. . . .

After forty-five minutes, as she was putting on her clothes, she told me that it would be two hundred dollars. I didn't feel like paying her and I told her so. She laughed and thought I was joking, but I was serious. I said, "Look, you weren't even that good, I don't think I should have to pay you." Her face visibly sagged, and she looked at the wall, as if it was interesting, then she said, "Don't make me call Cyrus, 'cause he'll fuck you up, white boy. I gave you a service, and you need to pay me for that service, got it?" I stood up from the bed, still naked, and walked over to the phone. It was one of those old rotary phones, where the receiver sits on a cradle. I picked it up and walked toward her as she was putting her earrings in her lobes. "Call the motherfucker," I said, "Here, I'll help..." As I said this I swung the phone at her head, hitting her square in the temple. She stumbled back and fell against a small desk that was in the corner. I came at her again, but realized that phone would only go so far, so I ripped it out of the wall and bashed her head in. She never made one noise, as if accepting her fate, which was definitely a bonus.
I stole all her money and her earrings, which were cheap, but I thought my mom might like them. I put on my clothes and left, feeling much better about myself, but I left my cell phone in the room. Oh well, you win some and you lose some, eh?

I Understand, Really...

So do you think I should join the protests in my city? Up one of the streets here, there are anti-war protesters on one side of the street and pro-war people on the other. You think I should join them? But, see...I'm kind of undecided on the whole war thing. Like everything, I can understand both view points and I feel both ways.

So, I want to start protests for the undecided.
We'll stand in the median in the middle of the street, right in between both groups of protesters. While both sides are yelling and chanting at us - we'll turn to them and smile, saying, “I know. Totally!" or "You're Stupid!" We can make up signs with big question marks on them. Hoist banners that say " Yes/No ".

Or we can just hold protests against pro-protesters...

What If Han Solo Was Bitten By A Radioactive Spider?...

I've been saving this stupid two dollar bill in my wallet and I need to spend it. I was thinking that it was for good luck, but considering that I have a broken ankle and no money now, I don't think that it was a good good luck charm at all. I've never really been the good luck charm type. I always figured that it was kind of a double edged sword. If something good happens, then it was because of charm. Something bad happens, then it doesn't apply to the charm's good luck conjuring ability. It reminds me of a story I read about the origins of why people cover their mouths when they yawn. First, nobody wants to see your choppers unless you're Amy Choppa. Second, I read that people used to cover their mouths because they were afraid of evil spirits entering their bodies. But on the other hand, you were screwed if you already had a demon in you and you kept on covering your mouth because then it really wasn't going to leave because you were blocking it's only escape route.

Moral of this story?

Absolutely nothing. If your ankle ever hurts and you take a Vicodin, don't try writing something.

Okay...

If you had the choice of being killed by a stalker or dying a lonely death - what would you choose?

Not that I have stalkers or anything...

Guess Who's Coming To Visit?...

Besides Ian. Oh, no...there's some haircutting going on in the bathroom, and I'm here at the computer, so I know I'm safe. And Ijazz, the pilot just asked me where to pee now that the bathroom has been overrun with girls butching? butchering? themselves, or their hair for that matter. Fuck, I forgot what I was writing about. People never can get it stright in their skulls that if you see a thin, feverish, imp clacking away at a device - don't bug them. If you destroy the mountain while it's being built, then you're gonna have a sand pile if you don't let the sediment pile up.

Oh, yeah...Google hits, anyone?

As of the last hour...

Spider Monkey Masturbating.
Horse Humping.
Overcooked McDonalds Hamburgers.

This is just in the last thirty minutes, folks...

Picture what I get in a month. You and all of your mammary gland, slightly robust, lactation fetishes, you sick bastards.

Fat Free Milk, indeed.

Ugh.

Spur Of The Moment...

Party here at my house, I guess.
You're more than welcome.
And I really needed it due to my inability to move or due anything productive,
so I might as well be unproductive in the company of friends and beer, right?

I almost fell in the flower bed in front of my house today.
I'm hanging out with my friend Ijazz. He's Indian, and he's a pilot.
His last name is something I find hard to pronounce.
He has been investigated by the F.B.I., so he's safe.
He once offered to drive me to Vegas. I didn't go.
When he was studying for flight school, he stayed with me and I caught him humpimg his girlfriend.
He looked like a brown lobster flailing out of water. His girlfriend just laughed.
Elvis Costello is guest-hosting Dave Letterman tonight.
My sister is boycotting Fat Free Milk because in my last post I called her a cunt out loud to my girlfriend.

Sindy, come back.

I need to pee.

Am I Bad?

I just called my mother a "Cunt".
I laughed about it, it just sounded funny.
And no, I didn't tell her that to her face -
I don't ever talk to her much.

The cunt.

Feel Like Venting?...

Go nuts. Leave a comment.
About Pepsi,
Puerto Ricans,
Frodo,
whatever's frustrating you today...

A Penny...

Nothing against him. I don't know much about 50 Cent except that he sings some songs that I like and that he was shot nine times and he used to be a drud dealer, blah, blah. He may be a saint, but I doubt it. Anyway, I was wondering...he gets shot nine times and lives. Somebody like JFK gets shot once, twice, or magic-bullet-whatever, and dies.

I'm gonna get Avril Lavigne to kick his ass.

A Glimpse Of Humanity...

You want to see some angry people?

Just watch traffic for a little bit...

Everybody needs to just calm the fuck down.

Reason Why I'm A Bad Boyfriend No. 364...

Girlfriend trying to rest in bed. I say that I'll put the TV on something good for her to fall asleep to.
I manage to tune into Animal Planet just in time so that she can watch a dog die.

S.O.S.

Beer...need beer.
No wonder all of the one-legged, broke cripples I know are clear-headed and sober.
They can't afford to get drunk anymore,
Or they can't make it to the store.

Little Bunny Foo Foo signing out...

And I'm Sorry, But...

Does this strike you as a little bit strange?
Take a really good look at their set up...
Can I log in to My Account for any new apocalyptic news?
The first new 20,000 subscibers get what?

There are certain things that exist on this Earth that make me wish there really was a hell....

Hell is other people.

Deserted Island, Pet, Movie, Book, Partner other than a significant other, Unlimited Food Item, And CD...

Why is everybody always trapped on an island? Why not in an abandoned silver mine? A retirement home. Anaheim? Or a Linkin Park concert?

Anyway, If I was ever trapped on a desert island and could bring a pet, it wouldn't be my dear, old cat, 60 - it would have to be a trained chimpanzee that liked to fish. If I could only watch one movie while I was there? You know, because all of those desert islands generate their own electricity and have TV's that only play one movie...it would be...Empire Strikes Back. Book? The Boy Scout Handbook Of America. Another person? Damn...Elizabeth Hurley without her kid. Unlimited food item? Food? tobacco doesn't count? Beer either? Steak, I guess. Cd?...something long of Beethovens.

All of these could change, though.

Hmmmm....

I Hate Lucy...

If I was Lucy, I would've thrown gay-ass Little Ricky out the window,
called the INS and had them deport my husband,
tossed a molotov cocktail inside Fred and Ethel's apartment,
and then run away with a short-haired lesbian named "Jo".

"Marsupials" Written By Tom Schmitt...

I kept hearing this scratching on the roof at night. It was central to the chimney, this weird clawing sound. I think that a family of possums are up there, scurrying back and forth, playing with their food, running in circles, whatever possums do when no one's watching, which is most of the time. I always thought that possums were rather slow creatures, but these bastards were nonstop, like they're drinking Red Bull. It's very annoying. And, of course, it's like they know I'm sleeping, so that's when they're the loudest. Actually, I hardly ever hear them during the day.
Yesterday, I got the grand idea to flush them out. My plan was to go up there with a broom and kind of knock them around a bit, show them who the boss was. This way, they would associate pain with being on my roof, thus, never coming back. (I didn't even think that if I pushed one down the chimney it'd be in my house, thank God it didn't come to that!) I went to the garage and got the broom and a ladder. I set the ladder up on the side of my house and climbed up, walking slowly over the shingles, thinking this way I wouldn't fall into my living room. My next-door neighbor, Mr. Seaver, was in his backyard raking leaves. I waved and said hello, told him "I was rounding up some possums," he laughed and said "good luck, be careful." I got to the chimney and looked around. I saw lots of bird shit, but no possums. Being at the peak of the roof, I stopped walking so lightly, and checked the other sides of the chimney. Again nothing. I then looked down the chimney, but all I could see was blackness. I grabbed the broom and stuck it down the chimmney, moving it back and forth, trying to dislodge something, when it slipped from my hand and fell down the chimney.
Apparently, in most chimneys, there is a bend in the construction, so that the flue is not totally straight. The broom fell about four feet and got stuck in the bend, I could see it's handle resting against the concrete. My first instinct was to say fuck it, and just go buy another broom. I never used my chimney, so I wasn't worried about the thing catching on fire and burning the house down. I started to walk away, but I couldn't do it. I just felt so stupid for dropping it down there. I came up to get those damn possums away, and then they took my broom? Fuck that. I was going to get it.
I turned around, brushed away some of the bird shit with the back of my hand, and pulled myself up a little bit so that I could get a better angle reaching the broom. I stretched my arm as far as it would go, but still couldn't reach it, so I scooted further on the chimney's lip. Again I couldn't reach it, again I scooted. It was at this moment, when I was half an inch away from the end of the broom, that my neighbor yelled, "Ya'll right up there, Sal?" and at that second, straining as much as I was for the goddamn broom, I got so distracted that I fell in the chimney.
I slid past the broom, and luckily I had my hands outstretched, and they helped break the fall when I hit the bend in the concrete. My dumbass neighbor (who probably yelled on purpose for a good laugh), saw the whole thing and also heard my girly yelp as I went down. He called the fire department and they came out and pulled me up by feet. The whole neighborhood ended up crawling out of the woodwork, pointing and gawking. The circus was in town and I was the main event. It took three firemen to pull me out, and they were kind, asking me if I was all right, but aside for my ego being bruised, I only had a few scratches. They watched me climb across the roof and down the ladder, making sure I didn't slip again and, this time, finish the job. Once I was on solid gorund, the firemen roared off in their truck and one by one, the neighbors disappeared. Embarrassed, I trudged inside, plopped down on the couch, and shook my head, wondering how I got this low.
Thankfully, after that day, I never heard the possums again. Perhaps, because I made such an ass of myself, they felt sorry for me and decided to cut me some slack. Whatever the reason, I was glad they were gone. Overall, although it has become a neighborhood myth, I'm not too scarred by the ordeal. I'm just pissed that I still left the fucking broom in there.

It's Alive!...

Way too much free time, so...the screenplays rise again. God help me.

*UPDATE*

I, so far, have accomplished absolutely nothing.
I watched something on TV about Picasso.
Ate a salad.
Showered on one leg.
Played a dumb game on the internet.
The stack of notebooks to my right is glowering at me.
The gods up on Mt. Productivity are laughing...

Freaky Sleep Stories...

I rarely do anything weird in my sleep. I never sleep, so it's not a problem. No, really - I don't do anything crazy in my sleep. No sleepwalking. I know a girl who likes to pee in closets in her sleep. That's why she never spends the night. I don't even snore. I do like to fall asleep to Empire Strikes Back, but that's not a sleep habit. Not really.

Okay, but check this out - I was almost asleep last night when my girlfriend started laughing. I looked at her and her eyes were closed. I whispered her name, but she just kept on laughing, it really scared the hell out of me. Friggin' spooky, man. Your girlfriend laughing demonically in the middle of the night?

That sucked. It took me a long time to get back to sleep after that because she still had a smile on her face.

Screaming Jay Hawkins...

So I barely posted at all yesterday because I had to go to the ankle/dude/guy/doctor/man. I arrived at nine in the morning so that I could wait there for an hour and a half. This type of crap happened to me at the dentist last week? If I make an appointment for a certain time, isn't that because that's a time...when they have time? Next week when the dentists office calls to confirm my new appointment, wait til I get a hold of them. Suffer. When the ankle/dude/guy/doctor/man finally saw me, he kicked me in the crotch. Now I have a cast on my penis. I'm not supposed to use it for six weeks. I killed him. No, he said I don't need a cast. That's great. I didn't have the money anyway. I have to go back for new x-rays in three weeks. Then, this splint thing can come off and I can go back to wearing high heels - oops! I meant, shoes again. I may be able to ditch the crutches and use a cane. Big daddy Kane? Michael Caine? Abel? Cain? Mmmmm, candy. I got a new splinty/casty thing, and can unwrap it whenever I want. I slept on my side last night. That was a little slice of heaven there, Bubba.

I am going nuts, though. I need to work. I need to do stuff.

One can only look up so much gothic porn.

Damn Pictures, Prizes, Poems, And Trinkets...

Okay. I was bored. I created an ego-driven contest about me, for me, and involving drinking and internet-scavenger-hunt-type shenenigans, and I had a lot of fun. Neat, neat, neat. And some people discovered new writers and made some new friends. This KM day was the bestest day ever.

I had a hard time dishing out the two Grand Prizes, so now they’re all Grand Prizes…

I need some addresses for:

ATL Superstar
Boz From The Grand Ennui.
Steve from Steve's Mental Spigot.
Kathy from Kazoofus.
Melissa from Coffee For One.
Danee from Diaries Of A Flame Dame.
Amy Choppa from Get To The Choppa!
And Cheeks from My Life As A Shaven Ape.

Email me at Kevynn75@hotmail.com

Did I forget anybody?

And can you send poo in the mail if it's in Tupperware?

Ill Communications...

Well, this sucks...

Winners will be announced pretty soon. I've just been gone all day at the ankle doctors and at my girlfriend's car place, and then we had to run a crapload of errands. I'm finally home, but am on obligatory phone conversation number one. It was daytime when I started talking. it's dark now. This is why I hate talking on the damn phone.

Getting Late...

I don't feel like turning into a dirty servant just yet...
So everybody list what KMD shite you accomplished...

The Grand Prize and the runner-up are waiting for ya' bee-yotch...

Totally Having Fun...

Now Al and Todd are here. Todd brought a digital camera for KMD, but I don't think that we can hook it up to my computer. Retarded, yes. I talked to Boz, Melissa, Steve, Danee, Pamela, Melissa's boss, who else did I forget? ATL Superstar. We were going to smear ash in the shape of a "K" on our foreheads. Beer number what? I don't know...

Have you seen the Ali G show?

Anyway, where's my weiners? I mean, winners?

Yelling...

"How many beers is that for you?" to Ian. I dont think he can hear me...
He took work off tonight. Last night Mr. Henry Rollins was reading at his work...
A gal I used to work for would get about a hundred Xmas cards for free every year.
She would donate to a school for handicapped people, and then would recieve free Xmas cards painted by them. Some had covers from people with no hands, etc.
My boss would always give them to me. So I would sometimes send them to random people. I would sign my name and let them wonder who the hell I was. I would send a card to Henry's publishing company, Black Sparrow Press, City Lights, and The Los Angeles Times...others I forgot...

It was fun...

I need to start doing that again....

Who's drinking?

AIM = bubbahotep 75

Basketball Diaries...

Ian just took one of my Vicodins.

So far my friends have taken more of these things than me.

I should set up a beer/prescription drug exchange...

Ian, Drunken ASSistant of Kevynn Malone Day Speaks...

salutations pussa-a-a-a-ys! i actually 'em getttin' to done be allowed to write on this internet thingy.totally sweet!I think were on beer 3 or 4 now and kevynn still hasn't given me any vicatins.what a cheapskate. I even bought the beer and everything.one good thing about k-day is that you get to eat free food made by his hippie girlfriend! yeah granola!another great thing about k-day and being thewhat is it? the drunken ASSassin? is that i got to poo, drink and read hellboy at the sametime in k. malones bathroom. I know it's not spiderman but it's better.stop hatin on opera baby that ish is f'in hilariuos.god save the V.

Speaking Of Pooping...

I think you need to see this...

Beer No. 2.

I am humbled by your participation in the Kevynn Malone Day festivities.

I have pooed twice.

Twice.

Happy Boozy Booze...

Ian, my drunken ASSistant will be here soon...
I'm checking out the comments that have been left by some of you from the Kevynn Malone Day list.
I hope nobody is confused. It's kind of funny, I feel like I'm in the Amazing Race or something and that I'm a couple hours behind the fastest and noisiest car that's in first place. Fuck did that make sense?

I should've said that I feel like Rascoe P. Coltrane chasing the Duke Boys...

That would've been better.

Happpy Kevynn Malone Day!

For those of you who don't know, I created my own holiday. It was an excuse to drink and to give away a prize. And now that I'm a non-ambulatory, gimpy guss, this day is even more special than before. Take a look at the previous post and see how one can participate in the festivities.

I have already pooed.
Read a Spidey comic.
And here is my first beer, Bubba...

AIM name - Bubba Ho Tep 75
Email - Kevynn75@hotmail.com

Kevynn Malone Day Is Tomorrow...flex those typing fingers and massage that liver...

For those of you who do not know. I have officially decreed tomorrow, Kevynn Malone Day. It is a holiday for me, created about me. It's about drinking and bugging me on the computer. it's about AIMing everybody and writing on this piece of shite website. There will probably be way too many posts by me tomorrow. And it's about a contest too, yo. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be home all day. Ian has volunteered his services on Kevynn Malone Day. He will be the Secretary Of Drunkeness. I will do nothing but write and drink. Especially with this fucking broken ankle now. Do you like prizes? The first person that completes all of these chores gets a grand prize from me. The second gets a just-as-cool prize, but not-as-cool as the first.


· You must drink at least one alcoholic beverage.
· Poop at least once during that day.
· You can’t take off your shoes unless they’re work shoes.
· No sleep until midnight. ( I’m being generous to you here )
· You have to eat a salad. Any salad.
· Buy and/or read one Spiderman comic. I've included a link for the lazy bastards.
· Go to a toy store or at least think about it.
· Take out the trash.
· And make a comment on all these websites if they work:

I love you...

Britney Spears Naked...

Sorry, I only did that for the million Google hits I'll get.
Have you ever seen or met a celebrity? Who was it and what did they look like/say to you?
Did they smell?

I once walked right past Anthony Keides when in Hollywood. He is very short. He was coming out of a liquor store when I was coming in. My father met Colonel Sanders and Emperor Hirohito. Not in the same day. I saw Charlie Sheen twenty minutes after seeing Anthony. He was coming out of The Viper Room. I've met all of the members from Bad Religion. They're way too nice to be punk stars. I met Chuck Henry. Not Buck, but Chuck...

Hmmm...who else.

I wish I'd meet an ankle doctor...and a millionaire...

Kevynn Malone Day. March 5th!!!

Quick Question...

What do you freaks think about this AudioBlogger thang?
I'm tempted to try it. Well, I'm tempted to try your mom too, but that doesn't mean I go with all my urges.

Kevynn Malone Day. March 5th!

If It Ain't Broke, Don't Jump Out Of The Car Then...


Six weeks off of work? How the hell can I do that? Please tell me that somebody put there is a millionaire so I can pay my bills/rent/porn fees. You would have to be a computer geek too. I don't know how to hook up that Paypal crud.

What the hell am I going to do in my freetime? I can't walk. My girlfriend's at work now, I'm all alone. Yesterday a bunch of friends came over and brought beer, cheese, and chips. Then my Hymen broke and they all left. Google search: Hymen. Besides the finacial woes, I think I will be nibbling crackers and drinking water while finishing screnplays then. Then by the time I'm all healed, I can give one to that lady from MGM. Then I'll kick her in the crotch and run away on my newly healed ankle. I'm gonna smoke...I'll be back in thirty six minutes....

I like Boz. Boz likes Me. Post Exchange.

"Wtf, all the comments from January 29th have disappeared.
Don't worry boz, they'll be back.
You really think so?
Trust me.
Your name isn't Pop is it?
Why?
Because my pop told me to never trust anyone named Pop.
No, this is the voice of your conscience.
You mean ...
Yep, Frank Sinatra.
Could you sing a couple bars of Moon River?
That was Andy Williams you putz.
Sorry, I've gotten the two of you mixed up since the time I fell off the truck.
Welp, Dino and Sammy are calling, I'm outta here.
Hey, is it true what they say about Juliet Prowse and Jill St. John?
--POOF--"

Lucas...

Broken glasses.
Broken ankle.

Fuck.

If I Only Had A Cam...

You could watch me hobbling around...

I'll make fun of me...for you, okay?

Gimpgimpgimp?

Here's the next to the last of the Something Something Grand Ennui/ Fat Free Fetish Chili Cook-off or Something.

"I recieved the gift from Kevynn, the purveyor of Fat Free Milk, that we agreed upon as part of our "Exchange Things We Already Have, and Want to Get Rid of, Instead of Polluting the World With More Useless Christmas Gifts, That We Probably Don't Want or Need in the First Place" program. I recieved two CD's. The first CD was the hauntingly beautiful, hardcore techno, ultraviolenceKILLING GOD. The second CD was THE LENNY BRUCE ORIGINALS VOLUME 2. (Who knew Lenny was so original that he needed two volumes?)
I will be reviewing the aforementioned CD's sometime tonight, or by tomorrow at the latest, honest.

ultraviolenceKILLING GOD - Johnny Violent
I'm not a fan of techno, it sounds like elevator music on speed. This CD is neither good nor bad, it is just there. Maybe if I had some glowsticks, a pair of Doc Martens, and a hit of XTC I would get it, but I don't, well I do have the Doc Martens, but I still don't get it, but that's ok, because, really, I am supposed to get it? One piece of advice, don't listen to this CD if you are feeling mildly suicidal and there is a razor blade nearby, it can only come to no good.
-boz-

THE LENNY BRUCE ORIGINALS VOLUME 2 - Lenny Bruce
I can't really give you a review of this CD because I fell asleep while listening to it. Quite frankly it is dated. What he was talking about back in the early 60's, though avant garde at the time, would scarecly raise an eyebrow today. Lenny Bruce at his best was social commentary and not stand up comedy, and it should be viewed as such. He was not in the same class as Newhart, Winters, Sahl, Berman, Cosby, or any other of a long list of hip young stand-up comedians of the time, but no one pushed the envelope like he did, and that is how he should be remembered. 'nuff said."

Word Of Advice To All You Folk...

When in an argument with your significant other...and when you tell her that you want to Get The Fuck Out Of The Car!...Don't actually jump out. It'll remind you what pain is all about, and why grown men shouldn't jump out of cars. Ankle bones are brittle. Hobbling around is not tough. Arguments always start for the stupidest of reasons.

Sometimes being single is less painfull...

Ouch.

Bamboo Plants...

My name is Kevynn Malone. I am 5' 11' and a half inches tall. I weigh 138 lbs. My hair is dark brown. I have one brown eye and one light brown eye. My hair is short. I have a scar on my eyebrow from Ian punching me in a drunken fight club night. I have a scar on my nose from throwing it through the glass on a front door. I broke my wrist playing football in fifth grade. I have bad knees. I play Bass guitar. I draw one picture every three months. I write everyday. I am horrible at paying bills. Children like me. I have too many friends. I have too many enemies. All of my friends are talented and insane. I barely drive. I hate freeways. I like to read. None of my family lives in California. I have a girlfriend and two cats. My father used to work for a secret branch of the government. My mother is very short and could drink you under the table. She's a fucking scrapper in a fight. My father is shy. I am not. I sing a lot out loud. I used to skateboard a lot. I like comic books again. I want to be a movie star. I want my screenplays publised. I did meet one of the studio heads from MGM yesterday, though. I want to be a Calvin Klein model. I like to buy action figures. Tonight I am going to Jen's house, then I am going to see Tony and Tom play at a bar. Tomorrow I am going to the library. Sunday? I don't know. I am looking forward to Kevynn Malone Day on March 5th. I encourage all to AIM me. We can all hook up that talky-to-talky option on it and drink together. I don't drink anything else but Bud Light. I'm a puss. I don't like to get in trouble anymore. I like to be awake when I drink. I should be getting ready right now, but I'm not. I'm talking to you and singing to Soul To Squeeze by Red hot Chili Peppers.........

I am happy. Mostly. I won't complain. I'm trying. Maybe not hard enough. I need to ignore you more and concentarte on all of the movie and book shit that I attribute 4% of my time to. I taught my girlfriend's niece all about Pez today. I gave her a really cool one today. We ate candy and filled all of mine up. I broke one. But it was a stupid one, so who cares. I need to hook up my photo scanner. I need to get business cards printed. I can dance, but don't. Much. I don't have a Play Station. I have a cool backyard. My neighbors are my friends. I buried my old cat in the backyard. I am friends with an eighty year old man. My youngest friend is four. I am twenty-seven. I believe aliens have visited Earth but don't believe in any of your gods. I don't like to watch wrestling. I like basketball and nothing else. I am unorganized. I think a lot. I wave to planes and helicopters. I don't like to kill ants, but will punch you in the face if you piss me off. I have to remind myself to breathe deep. I am more apt to look up or down than left/right or forward. I don't have a cell phone. I carry around a Moleskin in my back, left pocket. I hate coffee. I smoke. I have Buddy Holly-type glasses, but I need new ones. I paid three hundred glasses for these four years ago. I think I got my moneys worth....My vision isn't horrible. I am nearsighted. I eat a lot of salads. I hate sharks. I like monkeys.

I'll be back soon, nigga...

Important...

I like Pez.

Wow...

That's what I get for being distracted.
My drunken post about tonights drunkeness is now gone.
If I wasn't drinking, I guess my post about me being drunk wouldn't have been erased.
But then I wouldn't of posted.

Because I was drunk and I got distracted...

Will the madness never end? Yes it will, but not till sunday when ...The last installment of The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange finally, FINALLY, hits the streets.



"I am at the stage of my cold where every time I fall asleep I wake up, and it's a bitch. It's a bitch is a very sexist term isn't it. I imagine you could substitute, it's a bastard, if your genderosity is easily offended. Genderosity, what a hoot. Either way, it wrecks havoc on my already fragile sleep pattern. Stuffy nose, sniffles, sore throat, sneezing, coughing, these have become the norm for my night. If that isn't bad enough, I like to sleep in boxer shorts, but because of a slight chill that goes hand in glove with my cold, I have taken to wearing an old pair of pajama bottoms that I found stuffed in the back of one of my drawers. That is all well and good, but as I mentioned they are an old pair of pajama bottoms, old in the sense that the elastic in the waistband is a thing of the past, and whenever I get up to go to the bathroom, which is a very frequent occurence due to the cold, the pajama bottoms usually end up around my ankles by the time I make it to the bathroom door, and this is not a good thing, because .... are you still with me? When I was a small child they had the last of the big polio scares and one morning I woke up to, you guessed it, go to the bathroom, and I couldn't walk. I was in extreme agony, dragging myself, bawling, and screaming across the floor. You have to realize that this was about five in the morning. so of course my parents were both sound asleep, sound asleep that is until they heard my anguished cries. I was able to babble out that I couldn't walk, and my mother totally freaked. She had POLIO in her eyes. My dad, being the more practical of the two, decided to give me a cursory physical. He pulled down my pajama bottoms and found that my underpants had slipped down around my knees, and yes in our family my father was at least as important as Dr. Jonas Salk in finding a cure for polio, he deftly pulled my underpants back up, and PRAISE THE LORD, I could walk again.
As a brief footnote to this story, I had the same problem a few weeks later, but neither of my parents bothered getting up to help their youngest child as he literally dragged his crippled body across the floor towards the bathroom. The heartless beasts, where was child welfare when I needed them?
This story goes nowhere, and proves nothing except that it is four o'clock in the morning, and my cold is at the stage where every time I fall asleep, I wake up."

Keep Your Calender Open, And Your Legs Closed. ( Kevynn Malone Day Update )...

Well, here we are.
Everything working?
Can we all be the dorks again and start commenting?
Like I said previously, I officially declare Wednesday, March 5th, "Kevynn Malone Day" in the United States, Canada, and most of the free world. I ripped some of that off of Boz. Ha.

I will have the entire day off on Kevynn Malone Day. Kevynn Malone Day is a holiday about me, for me, and created entirely by me. You also have no choice but to participate. So step to it, you pieces of fuck! I will wake up early and write in between bouts of celebratory drinking. I will try not to invite friends, because that would distract me from your festivities.


So, what does one do in recognition of this national holiday?

I'm glad you asked, Bubba.

· You must drink at least one alcoholic beverage.
· Poop at least once during that day.
· You can’t take off your shoes unless they’re work shoes.
· No sleep until midnight. ( I’m being generous to you here )
· You have to eat a salad. Any salad.
· Buy and/or read one Spiderman comic. I've included a link for the lazy bastards.
· Go to a toy store or at least think about it.
· Take out the trash.
· And make a comment on all these websites if they work:

And most importantly, say hi to me...

First person that accomplishes all of these and shows me proof somehow might get a personalized prize from me. I might have mo’ to add later…

You know the drill by now, so let's just get it over with ...
The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange!

"I hate it when someone I think is older than I am turns out to be younger than I am, much younger. Does that make sense? Does life make sense? Do dollars make sense, or cents, or doughnuts?

My niece is thinking about getting a new car. She wants to lease a Chevy Malibu. I think she wanted my advice ... like that would help. Whenever anyone asks me what kind of car I have I tell them I have a red one.

I've spent the last half hour clicking on my website in a weak effort to run up the hit count. Live much? No, thanks I have cable modem.

When I was in college, back in the 70's, after the Air Force, my roommate and I wrote a song about Mr. Hockey, Gordie Howe. I wrote the lyrics and my roommate wrote the music. I don't remember much of the song, but I do remember the chorus, and it went something like this ...

a-one, and a-two,
Gordie-eeeeeeee,
Gordie-eeeeeeee,
Gordie-eeeeeeee Howe,
Gordie, how do you score all those gosh darn goals, Gordie
When you have to be forty-eight, or fifty-nine, or even seventy-six years old?

Gosh darn wasn't my original choice, but my roommate was a christian boy, so I compromised. You have to pick your fights."

Fucktards Everywhere...

Damn, everything is bugging the hell out of me. The fucking time-wasting dentist today. Not enough time to myself. Too much talk. Sometimes I don't like to talk. I want to be left alone. Avctually, I like to be left alone most of the time. All the fucking dumbasses everywhere. On my block, in my city, in California, all politics, and polticians, and in the world. Fucking TV. Fucking idiotic TV. Stupid-ass fucking Haloscan. Click refresh now. It might work one out of four times. YACCS accepting people for what two days? All of the other ones that I checked out, that seem promising in the beginning until you start to read more and either have to pay, It's in it's test stages and liable to pull a Haloscan on you when too many people join, or you have to actually understand all of the shite that they're talking aboot.

Then, tonight - my girlfriend told me
that sometimes I smell like her father. What?
No, we weren't in bed. Ha.

Thank god Kevynn Malone Day ( March 5th ) is coming up...

Wacky Iraqi...

Wow, that Saddam Hussein is fucking hilarious! I was watching the Dan Rather interview with him on CBS, and I've gotta say, I didn't know he had a sense of humor! There was that one part where Saddam gave Dan an exploding cigar, or when Saddam slipped a piece of phony dog poo on the desk when Dan was shuffling papers around? Holy fucktards! Or when Saddam called Dan a "Crazy Ass Nigga!", gave him a blunt and told him to "Smoke This Shit, Yo!" and then pulled a 40 oz. of Old English out of the pocket of his baggy, saggin' pants and took a big ol' swig. Phony dog poo...

Nuts, I tell ya.

Nuts.

I'm Funny...

My girlfriend was just sitting here beside me, and we were disgusting - Ooops! I meant we we're discussing commenting systems and the upcoming Kevynn Malone Day (March 5th). I had a pen in my hand and I made a mark on her foot. She didn't like that and wanted a pen so she could make a mark on me. So I told her that I would get rid of it…and scribbled it out with the pen.

Now she’s gone.

I’m funny.
Not funny queer.
Funny Ha Ha.

One Hour Scrotum...

Sorry. Before I go to bed, I have to tell you that I dread the dentist tomorrow. I might actually be going to sleep before two a.m. I was at the store tonight and finishing up my consumeristic naughtiness, girlfriend was looking at a Vogue magazine and contemplating on whether or not to buy that filth. I kind of know everybody at the store, and was making small talk with the-not-too-bright-but-friendly-bagger-boy.

He said, "See you later, Kevynn!".
I was thinking that my girlfriend and I had to "Take Off".
I was thinking about saying, "Take It Easy" to the bagger boy.

So, I looked at the-not-too-bright-but-friendly-bagger-boy
and accidently said..."Take It Off!".

And then hurried away.

Very, very fast.

The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange
Part the French word for three:
Boz's blog post, thingie, archive post...

"I woke up this morning and looked at the big number digital alarm clock and it read 802. Now if you aren't wearing your glasses, your eyes are still covered over with sleep and you squint, 802 will look like BOZ. I was so astounded by the realization that I rolled over and went back to sleep."

Before I Forget...

I officially declare Wednesday, March 5th, "Kevynn Malone Day".

What does one do in recognition of this national holiday?

More details later...when I think up of something(s).

So Close...

Friggin' Haloscan. Right when I'm looking
through other commenting system sites,
they go back online.This is their second strike.
Third? They're outta here, doody-fresh.

I am so tough. Uhhh...nope.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, it is almost time for the next installment of
The Great Grand Ennui/Fat Free Milk Archive Exchange
and from your feedback I can tell you are almost as excited as I am...

"I have to change the water in my goldfish, Fetish Doll's, bowl today, and I am a little worried. I have a bad habit, that goes back a couple of years, of killing goldfish when I change their water. When I changed the water ten days ago I killed Fetish Doll's mate Steph the Geek, and I had just bought both of them a week earlier. Gold fish aren't cheap! I think they cost about $1.29 each. Heck, you can buy three cans of tuna fish for that price. It must have something to do with the water temperature, I think I make it too cold. Or maybe I make it too warm. Or maybe there is too much chlroine in the water. Or maybe someone sneaks in and strangles them in their sleep.

Vanity update: My weight is going down faster than a priest on an altar boy. I have lost 24 lbs since the first of the year. That's a lot of avoirdupois. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful."


I like the new background texture on my homepage it looks like what Linda Blair puked up in the Exorcist.

Red Hot Chili Peppers Doing A Ramones Cover Aint Half Bad...

Anyway, I was just looking through the paper and thought you might want to know that Sav-On's is having a big blowout. EPT pregnancy tests are on sale for $8.99. So now you don't have to wait to see if you're pregnant or not. Aren't you glad you bargain shop? Gee, I was waiting all of this time for a coupon!

Oh, mouthwash is on sale too. Two for three dollars.

Goodbye, poop mouth.

Damn. What Was The Title Of My Post Before?...

Something happened. Everything's gone. Sucks, doesn't it? It wasn't that important anyway.

I said that I didn't want to clean the bathroom.
I want to continue reading Spiderman comics and drinking beer.
I want to be on a beach.
And then when I go to sleep.
Gnomes will come get me a blanket, clean up my mess, and leave me new comics and beer in the morning.

That's all that I said. Was that so bad? It wasn't even a good post.

But I liked it.

Okay, here it goes...

Take two.

Check Yo'self, Foo'...

Me. Boz. Fat Free Milk. The Grand Ennui. I'm gonna post one favorite post from Boz's website for the next seven days. Enjoy, punk....

"I am posting a lot of pics. I wonder if you can tell anything about me from the pics I post? I tried for an hour to find a good pic of Lori Petty to post, but wasn't able to find one that met my, ahem, strict standards. I think I'll see if I can find any nice ones of Tuesday Weld. Did you know she was fired from the cast of the television show The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, because she was thought to be too sexy?

I think I'd like to be a cult figure, not in an evil way like Charles Manson or Jim Jones, but more like where 99.9999999999% of the world has never heard of me, but where the .0000000001% who has heard of me is feverent in their devotion of me. I'd like if they had conventions, not unlike Star Trek conventions, where vendors would sell locks of my hair and toe nail clippings, and there would be symposiums discussing the hidden meanings behind the pic just beneath the main title of my blog. There would also be debates on my two pairs of eyeglasses: The gold metal framed computer specs, or the black metal framed everyday specs, which are cooler, you decide. They would dress like me, no, on second thought they wouldn't dress like me, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. There would be webrings and cliques with titles like, The Middle of the Movie, and Not Just For Breakfast Anymore. Fans would make pilgrimages to my house and camp outside my door, hoping for a glimpse of me, and sometimes I would go outside and talk with them, and other times I would call the cops and have them arrested. Then of course there would be that one fan who went over the edge. Preferably a female fan so taken in by me that she would want to have my baby, but rebuffed she would stalk me. She would follow me around, there would be restraining orders, court dates, confrontations, jail time, and finally one night while I tossed and turned in bed there would be a sound, I would open my eyes and look up, and she would be there, with a knife with a 12 inch blade over her head about to come down ........ On second thought, I don't think I want to be a cult figure. I like it better being unknown to 100% of the world. The end."

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses over the Hills...

I didn't want to wake up, but I had to. Last night was one of those nights where everybody drinks too much and makes plans for the next day. What we don't realize is that most won't remember, and the ones that do won't find anybody to go to breakfast, lunch, or dinner with because the other person is probably sleeping. Don't exchange phone numbers with a newfound friend because it'll just be cleaned out of the wallet in a month. Realize that you'll be eating fast food before you go to bed. You won't even remember it until you see the empty wrappers in the trash. I laughed a lot last night. Ha Ha Ha. I did. Really.

I didn't want to wake up, but I did. I went to the batting cages. Everybody else flaked out except for Joe. Not Joe Mama. My back is sore. When I hit em? Great. When I don't? My back gets all twisted like spaghetti. I have bad knees, okay? They've been bugging me bad for the last coupla years. You should see me walk up steps when nobody's looking. That's what skateboarding will do to ya' kids, look out. So, one ball I hit, smacked me in the knee. My left knee, thankfully. My right knee's the worst. I didn't want to hit anymore because I was in so much pain. Later, I did the same exact fucking thing. Instead of quitting, we logically went to the fast pitch cages.

We played Laser Tag. Me, Joe, two moms, and 23 kids. I got in a fight with one who was bugging the hell out of me. I took his wallet. I played video games. I ate pizza. I went outside to smoke. I sat on a rock. Little blackbirds were pecking at the lawn in front of me. Maybe forty of them. They got closer. And closer. And closer, until they were about five feet away from me. I sat still. My cigarette was developing a grandma ash of mass proportions. A young girl started to look at me. Was it the close proximity of the birds or my natural, boyish charm? Was I a Bird Whisperer? I played more video games. I saw god. No. I went to the video store. I got nothing. I think that is sad. I went home to take a shower. I didn't. I talked to one of my older brothers. I need to go to Baltimore when his baby is born next month. I'm the Marlon Brando of his kid. Wait, I'm the fat-once-brilliant-actor of his kid?

Joe and I were waiting for Chris so that we could go to dinner. I was smoking in the backyard. No birds. Too cold. No worms? I don't know. I heard a crunch. I could tell it was a car against car crunch. Let's stop this "car on car" crime. I heard glass tinkling. I ran to where I heard the noise originate from. It was coming from where my car was parked. The hit and run, drunken-or-just-plain-stupid driver hit the car parked behind mine. Joe and I talked to the irate owner who told us that he fargin felt like cussing, and the cop. I hoped he didn't see my expired registration. I thanked the god(s). We ate food.

I came home. Watched smatterings of the Grammys. Why aren't they giving out awards to grandmothers? Read. Tried to type. Waited. Watched the end of ALI. Uhhh...fine, I guess. It's no When We Were Kings, though. There is a fat cat asleep by me. She is on her back. She is disgusting. One arm is in the air. One is curled down like she's saying, "Aww Shucks!". I think she ate all of the birds that I hung out with today.

I'm glad I woke up.
Now I need to go to sleep...

Smells Like Teen Spirit...

First concert. I was sixteen, I think. Kyuss, White Zombie, Danzig. Why? I was into Danzig. That's it. Halloween night. Lied to my father. Told him I was staying at Tony's house. Costumes. Freaks. Joel lost a whole eighth of pot and we spent the first half hour looking for it. Why? I don't know. I never liked it. I had an older brother, so I know what I'm talking about. We started a mosh pit. We floated Mike across the crowd, and then lost him. We didn't see him until the last part of the concert. I lost my earring and my mask in the space of the first mosh-minute. There were bonfires. I saw long-haired freak's hair go up in flames. A big guy that was standing and watching right by me nudged me and gave me his pipe. I smoked it. Why? I don't know. I got stoned. I hated getting stoned. I lost track of time. I saw a guy with a bloody eye in the bathroom yell what a great time he was having. There were zombies, witches, vampires, and idiots. It was fun.

My next concert was at the Orange County Fair.

I saw The Everley Brothers.

Even scarier.

The Wheels On The Bus...

Time is passing, things are changing. After work I played with my girlfriend's sister's daughter in the park. Does that make sense? If my girlfriend and I were married, which we will be when I'm 87, Rosie would be my neice. She'll start to hate me later on, but she thinks I'm pretty cool now. We point out animals in my books. I pay attention to her. She's the only girl I hug and kiss besides my girlfriend, and I don't have to figure out bills with her, so it's a perfect arrangement. After I got off of work today, my girlfriend asked if I would take Rosie to the " P.A.R.K?". I agreed so that my girlfriend and her sister could talk about family/girl stuff in peace. We went to the park by my house. I had to carry her in my arms all the way there. That was the agreement. If I had it my way, I probably would've let Rosie drive me there. Not my kid. Not my rules. If I had it my way, I'd instruct Rosie to act like she was a midget and ask adult questions to the adults. I'd give her a cel phone and dress her up in a jogging suit. I'd tell her to scream into the phone and ask people, "What the fuck you lookin' at?" when they were staring. I'd tell her to say, " Haven't you ever seen a midget with sloooow speech before?"

The park was empty when we got there. We climbed on everything. We slid down the slides. I made the mistake of teaching her how to play, "Store" in one of the play houses. I would give her wood chips as money and she would give me hamburgers. Consumerism, anyone? I'm glad I didn't call the play house, "McDonalds". Then I would've had to pretend to puke all over the place. Rosie never grew tired of the game, I was sick of putting my hands in all of the woodchips. I kept on thinking about what drunk teenagers do at parks late at night. I tried to tell her that we should go on the slides again. See? Kids aren't bored doing the same thing over and over again. I am. That makes me the kid, I think. Then I thought that if I told her that I was going to play on the slide instead of asking her, I'd get my way. It worked.

The playground started to get filled with small little kids. About eight little things and four mothers that I knew for a fact were younger than me. I live close to a home for troubled, young, pregnant mothers. That explains the kids. One little dude with dreadlocks started to follow me around and wanted to do all of the things that I was doing. Nobody seemed to be watching him. He'd just squeek at me, but I was afraid of lifting him up on things and getting funny looks from the mamas. I had my kid, though. That was my defense. Little dreadlock boy started to follow us everywhere and so I helped lift him on a platform and tried to not make Rosie jealous and make it seem that it was perfectly natural that I was devoting half my time to her and a complete stranger. Little dreadlock boy started to eat the woodchips after sticking his mouth down into the ground. I was afraid of him choking, so I looked around and saw nobody paying attention once again. So, I did the only thing that I could. I stuck my fingers in somebody's baby's mouth and started to pull out the wood chip slivers. I was waiting for the scream from a mother. " What the hell are you doing with my baby?". I was picking fucking wood out of saliva, okay? I shouldv'e thrown some chips in his diapers for fun. That would've really tripped them out later.

Babies were everywhere. When I was helping Rosie climb up a rope ladder. A little thing about the size from my foot to my knee came running up to me as I was climbing. She had a big smile on her face. I had an abject look of terror on mine. I blocked her to stop her from falling about four feet to the ground. I saw some of the mother's start to pay more attention then.

I felt like a father, a little bit. I was standing around watching Rosie with eagle eyes. One of the teenage girls/sitters was shadowing one of the munchkins around. I had a smile on my face and my eyes were darting around, looking for any potential obstacle or danger. Isn't it funny that parents in parks never really look at each other? They can't. One glance away means a busted kid head. I don't know who said what, it was something about one of the slides. I said some thing like, " Yeah, she really likes those." The mom said, "Oh yeah, mine too!" Ummmm....I'm standin' here in my bluejeans, scary black skull t-shirt, wristbands, and scary hair. I don't really fit, okay?

But I guess I do. Because I could be a father now. And I've always dressed however I wanted to at the moment. My uniform is pretty basic. Black shirts when warm. Collared long sleeves when cold. Hair always dumb. Me father now? No. You taking care of mine when I have em'? Oh yeah.

I'll teach my kid how to spellcheck too.


Poop head.

Another Reason Why I'm A Bad Boyfriend...

Watching the last episode of The Bachelorette.
My girlfriend turns to me, teary-eyed, and says, "Are you crying too?"

"Uh, no. I was picking my nose."

Richie Rich And Almost Famous...

I am now working on becoming rich and famous. Rich in what? Famous for what? No, you ass - I just wan't to be rich and famous. Not J-Lo rich and famous. Not F. Scott rich and famous. Not George C. Scott rich and famous. Not Scotland Yard. Not The Yardbirds. Not Charlie Parker. Not Trey Parker. Not Parker Bros. Not The Brothers McMullen. Not a mullet. Not Macauley Culkin. Not Coldplay. Not At Play In The Fields Of The Lord. Not Traci Lords. Not Lord Vader. Not Vapo Rub. Not, " Ay, there's the rub!". Not The Three Men In The Tub. Not Crockett. Not Davey Jones. Not Grace Jones. Not George Burns. Not cigar Burns. Not Smithers. Not Alan Smithee. Not Morrisey. Not The Lizard King. Not John Densmore's tinitus. Not Titus, The Faithful Padlock. Not Paddington Bear. Not Aslan. Not Pennywise. Not He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named. Not Admiral Thrawn. Not Elijah Snow. Not The Fourth Man. Not Aimee Mann. Not a man. Not a woman. Not Peter Parker. Not Johnathan Harker. Not Parker Posey. Not a fat head named Rosie. Not Zoloft. Not Phillip Morris. Not Kerouac. Not Palahniuk. Not Orson Scott Card. Not Harry Osborn. Not Warren Ellis. Not a crook. Not tired yet. Not smart, eh? Not enough time in the day. Not too html savvy. Not responsible. Not normal. Not a bad guy to know. Not taking anything for granted. Not a healthy liver. Not a good guy to stick in Vegas. Not into TV. Not taking out the trash. Not done with the screenplays. Not sure what that noise was coming from the turtle tank. Not sure why I think gothic girls are attractive. Not at all gothic myself. Not to touch the earth, not to touch the sun. I had the day off today but I had to cover for a guy whose brother died. I'm not kidding. I am not the god of hellfire. I once met a person who was attacked by a Vampire. I like Werewolves. I hate all Werewolf movies. I like all Spiderman comics. Please send me some. Not Werewolves. I need to go smoke now, can you hold on a sec? Why, thank you. You're the greatest, Bubba....I attract ghosts in almost every house that I live in. I once wrote a drunk email to Sarah B. and don't remember what I said. I recently wrote a letter of complaint to AT&T. I like action figures. I like Gary Oldman. I like the Dalai Lama. I hate China. I like Radiohead. I like Beer and nothing else. I am romantic. I am agoraphobic. I like the beach but hate open water. I like dogs but only have cats. My hair is growing back. I like to poo. I tried to get tickets to see Coldplay at The Hollywood Bowl but they sold out in the first seven minutes. I'd like to tell everybody that got them to suck it. I am listening to Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. I like to sing, and do almost always. I play bass guitar but not as much as I should. Good times never seemed so good. I like Bruce Campbell. I'd like to link to everything that I've talked about. I like eggrolls. I hate mexican food. I hate mexicans and love eggs. Not really. I need to get new car insurance. Larry stopped by tonight. He looks like Snoop Doggy Dog. I once saw Charlie Sheen and Anthony Keidis in the same hour. I have one brown eye and one light brown eye. I am afraid. I've got a bad feeling about this. I want to see Popeye, the movie. I don't miss Shelly Duvall one bit. I think Jennifer Garner is cute but shouldn't work out anymore. I don't watch wrestling. I lke to read. I don't like to read about wrestling. Ernest Hemingway blew his head off with a shotgun. I had a good Valentine's Day. There is still mistletoe hanging above the front door. I am not going to spellcheck this. I like you. I need a digital camera. I need to be adopted please. I live in California. I need to drop off my eight rolls of film tomorrow. I need to pay the cable bill. I need to go to the comic book store. I need to go now.

I need to be rich and famous.

Hop to it, punk.