Monday, March 31, 2003

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?


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., 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

Songs incomplete

We can only make
Monsters of ourselves.

Sunday, March 30, 2003


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.

Friday, March 28, 2003


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...

Thursday, March 27, 2003

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...

Wednesday, March 26, 2003

What The Hell...

Powered by audblogaudblog 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...

Tuesday, March 25, 2003

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.

Monday, March 24, 2003

My Bozzie Award...

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

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.

Friday, March 21, 2003

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.

Thursday, March 20, 2003

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 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.

Wednesday, March 19, 2003

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
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
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
you want to blow my book sales in
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
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do

Charles Bukowski

Tuesday, March 18, 2003

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.

Monday, March 17, 2003

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...

Saturday, March 15, 2003

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
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.

Friday, March 14, 2003

"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?

Thursday, March 13, 2003

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...

Wednesday, March 12, 2003

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.


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...

Tuesday, March 11, 2003

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.


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,
whatever's frustrating you today...

Monday, March 10, 2003

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.

Sunday, March 09, 2003


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...

Saturday, March 08, 2003

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 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.


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.

Friday, March 07, 2003

It's Alive!...

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


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

Did I forget anybody?

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

Thursday, March 06, 2003

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...

Wednesday, March 05, 2003

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?


"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 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.


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 -

Tuesday, March 04, 2003

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...

Monday, March 03, 2003

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!

Sunday, March 02, 2003

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?
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?

Saturday, March 01, 2003


Broken glasses.
Broken ankle.


If I Only Had A Cam...

You could watch me hobbling around...

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


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.

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...