Saturday, May 31, 2003

We Suck Young Blood...

I think my fucking head is going to blow up. It's simmering low, but getting warmer. hear that? Tiny, little Don Ho bubbles comin' to get me. I have to call April and tell her that I can't go see Finding Pixar Fish with Colin, the four-year-old boy wonder. He came over on Thursday with his dad/my friend, Jamal - who isn't black but looks exactly like Jason Lee. Jason Lee who isn't Chinese. Thank god, or else I'd have to boycott his existence for using slave labor to make my Star Wars toys and for practically wiping out the Tibetan culture. Four-year-old Colin came over with Jamal, and we shot the shit. I gave Colin a Wolverine Pez. That's how nerdy I am. I just have shit like that laying around. Good for kids. Bad for twenty-seven-year olds. My girlfriend left London. Where is she now? I just checked, she's in Paris. Paris sounds like a planet's name. It is like a planet, isn't it? I wouldn't know. I've traveled all over the U.S., but never been outside of the country. Well, Mexico. But that doesn't count. Mexico never counts. Mexico is hell on Earth. Chiclets are heaven. Mexico is hell on Earth.

I'm tired of working. I need to call my lil' sis back. I'm going to Austin. In July or something. Texas sucks. But at least it has Austin. And my sister's pets. She has two cats named He-Man and She-Ra. Two dogs named Miles Davis and Marvin Gaye. Yup. Joe's probably watching Adaptation right now, the bastard. People are having parties tonight. I don't feel like going. I'm lonely in this big ol' house all by myself. I feel like a mouse. Eeep.

I have too much food in the fridge. I hate to waste food. Is that why I'm thin? I'd just rather not have to deal with the guilt, so I just forego the whole experience? No, today I picked up some extra leftovers from the restaurant in hopes of seeing the schizophrenic, homeless guy, so that I could give him something else other than the usual cigarettes that I give him. I wandered around with food in my hands. Guess what? Yup. Wherethefuckishe? Damnit. I wish I could give him something useful, but what's really useful? A phone card? Then he'd talk to God, and I don't want anybody doing that shit. Leave him alone if he exists. I bet God's homeless too. God was probably rich once, but now he's wandering around and yelling at potted plants and star clusters.

I've got some clothes to give God, if I ever see him; I've got all of the food. I've got smokes, movies, and comic books. And internet access. Shit, I've got my own website. Maybe he'd want to say a few things. I know he's a better writer than me. But you don't have to be a God to be that.

I wonder if he ever says, "Me Damnit!".

I wonder...if this boat will ever stop floating...

God, I mean...Good bye...

Friday, May 30, 2003


Friggin' naps.
Always making me feel all Pilsbury.
Since when did I start taking naps, anyway?
It's all your fault, you shit balls...

Thursday, May 29, 2003

Did You Know That Elvis Presley Had A Twin Brother?...

No, not it wasn't me. I'm not that old. Geez. I' old am I? I'm 27, I think. I often forget how old I am. No, but serious, Elvis' twin brother's name was Jesse Garon Presley. He was born stillborn and they buried him in a shoebox. How crazy is that? Pretty fortunate that he died, because wouldn't you hate to be Elvis's brother? But, then maybe The Big "E" wouldn't have been a huge rock and roll, hunka, hunka, burning honky if he had to deal with an identical twin. I think that all identical twins are screwed up in some way. Who the hell would want a carbon copy of themselves stealing your shit, hogging up your space, and competing for oxygen? Not me, it was hard enough growing up with an older bro and a younger sis. I bet that somehow, it was all Colonel Parker's fault. Like, he had a pact with the devil and that he'd been shadowing Elvis' mom for years, waiting for her to pop out her twin set of little hicks. He knew of The Prophecy Of The Coming Of The Big "E", and was just waiting to whisk him away, and train him, so that he could have him perform evil deeds in order to dominate the world. Or something to that effect.

Fuck Colonel Tom Parker. He was a rat bastard.
And poor, little Jesse.

No fried banana sandwiches for him...

Oh, Now I Can Post...

Now that everybody's on their way home.
Word of advice: Only listen to classical music or opera when stuck in a traffic jam.
Everything else will just drive you bonkers.

I have a question...why do older men breathe through their nose?
It seems at least one time everyday, I encounter a man in a store who breathes loudly through his nose.
Like he's trying to suck nutrients from the air with it.

I'm just curious. It's kind of gross.
From now on, I'm gonna start carrying jelly beans in my pockets,
and I'll toss em' towards the heavy breathers face, then they'll get sucked up,
the man, will choke - and I'll be happy.

Thank You...

Wednesday, May 28, 2003


Do they even show cartoons on regular TV anymore? They don't play in the morning, it's all news shows. I can never find any on after work. Do kids actually go out and play after school now? It seems like they have to. They replaced after school cartoons with epsodes of COPS! I just watched a guy run out of a building after lighting himself on fire. Now there are a bunch of toothless, mid-western drunks getting arrested. No Robotech. No Batman. Not even fucking Pokemon.

The more and more mainstream media companies merge, the less diversity we're going to see.

So, I'll just turn it off. Take that, channel 11.

Well, after this is over...


So, my girlfriend left on Monday for Europe. Right now she's in Jolly Ol' London drinking tea. Yeah, right. She's drunk, I know it. She's a bad drunk too. Not like me, I mean she doesn't throw herself out of cars and let other people punch them in the face, but she's a lightweight. She gets all smiley and sleepy, and she talks a lot. I'd rather throw myself out of a car again. I miss her. It's too quiet. I'm not used to this anymore. Crazy, eh?

Time to call up some strippers...

Tuesday, May 27, 2003

Good From Afar, But Far From Good...

Okay, back to normal stuff...

So, one of my friends is dating / humping this young girl. Met her last night. She was annoying, but pretty. That's what I thought, but...I just saw them at the bank today...and the girl's face? Oh my god. I'm sorry, but not to be mean or anything, but yikes! Not good. Let's just say that my initial impression of her was a lot kinder than the stone cold reality of today. I've noticed that happens to me often. People end up looking completely different to me than when I first met them. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing...

Monday, May 26, 2003


I mean no disrespect. I suffer from a bad case of dumby, poopy-ness when it comes to my ill attempts at humor. I give one big, fucking salute to all of those that gave their lives in the name of freedom and liberation. Stupid politics, leaders, and war aside. Much respect to those that have given their life for worthy causes. Bless you, tough bastards. Bless you, boys.

Thank you.



Happy Memorial Day.
Today we give remembrance to all of the snails we've smushed,
either accidentally or purposely. So, today...pick one up, give him a kiss...and stick it somebody's purse or pocket.

Bimbo Baggins...

God damn, did I get slammed at the bar tonight.
I did get a rousing round of applause from all of the drunks,
at the end, before I kicked their drunk asses out.
A short lady that looked like a hobbit and clutching an Amstel Lite hit on me.

But her feet were too furry, so I politely declined her offer...

Saturday, May 24, 2003

It's That Time Again...

Time for me to make more deviled eggs for a BBQ.
Time for my house to smell even fartier than it always is...


So You Know I Really Am Drunk If...

If I start to drink wine. And If I push Chris through his screen door.

I don't drink wine.

Friday, May 23, 2003

Attention World...

By the time you read this...
I will be drunk. Please don't hate me.
I hope that, maybe,'ll understand.

I Love You, Always.

Thursday, May 22, 2003

Well I could have been a famous singer...

Hey little kitties. I got some bad news. I know you think, "Oh Kevynn, so your poo didn't flush down the toilet at work today. They won't know it's you. Blame the fat guy." But that's not the kind of bad news I got for you. I never talked about it before beeeecause I always thought monkeys would fix it somehow, or at least be trained to help me out when my sight failed me. Yeeeeah. I've been legally blind in one eye since I was 19, but it was always ok because I still had the other one! Ha ha life! Thanks for giving me two of everything, SUCKER! But I guess life heard me make fun of it and didn't like that I threw sand in its face at the playground. Baby. What a bunch of garbage it is that my other eye is going now, too. I used to sand down braile signs, and now I'm going to want to kick the little brats asses who do it. Honest, little chickens. That could have been chitlins, or chaplin, or LYSOL because it's so fucking hard for me to see. Seeeeeew. I want to keep PAINTING and reading SPIDEY comix and writing but it will eventually all turn into lysol or hubcaps when I really want to be telling you about how I think William Shatner is a big fat dump. Lysol and William Shatner are different. Believe it. So I think maybe I gets one of them micafones/programs that type what you say into the microphone? GAY. I don't know, friends. Your hero is failing, and at lightning speed. I'd say tune in next time, same milky time, same milky channel, but this episode is TO BE CONTINUED. Until I get some monkey eyes or super monkeys. Or cokebottle glasses. Or...DUN DUN DUN. To be continued...

Suckers. And the BEST part is, it's not even Kevynn the master of mischief who tricked you! It is I, Melly Mel! Ohhh man. You guys were just so TOTALLY DUPED! Psych! No one is blind! GAWD! Anyway...

The Kevvy asked me if I wanted to guest post and, hello, of course. Totally. I didn't want to be a super sappy baby and be all "Kevynn is the best ever. He is owed 3 monkeys. UNO!" Even though all of that is almost true. You decide.

Honestly though, I'm going to have to give some major props, luv, and XOXOs to Mr. Kevynn Malone. He is a favorite of mine, and I don't even do favorites. He's so goddamn nice, I don't know how anyone could ever have anything against him, ever. He's a darling friend, well rounded, generous and kind. You can't go wrong, honestly. He's full of 100% authentic awesome, and he shares us with it (almost) every day. From Christmas cards gone awry to playing with kids in parks and being cold shouldered for trying to help the tubby lady with her car, it's never dull. I know he feels like it sometimes, but truly it's all part of the Malone greatness. Whatever that means. But ok, honest. Kev, you're terriff, keep writing with your one good eye..haha kidding.. you're seriously top notch, kid.


"so I'm drinking, breathing, writing, singing
everyday I'm on the clock
my mind races with all my longings
but can't keep up with what I got..."

Reed Richards...

What the hell is going on? I was running around today, everything felt off. Or, at least off-er than it's often off-ness. My god, I feel bloated. I barely ate. Why do I feel like this? Must be my period again. I'm glad that today's whole shindig is over and that I can relax and do nothing. Fucking A. I read my new Spider Man comic book. It took me a whopping two minutes. It's funny that I'll look forward to something that takes a shorter time to finish fill in the blank. Fuck the T.V. Fuck my new Orson Scott Card book. Fuck the two movies that I just rented from the library. What the hell were they? Oh. The Thin Red Line. I remember hating that in the theaters and being bored with it, so why am I renting it? You tell me, sugar. What was the other I going to have to walk over to it now? God(s) damnit. It's my own fault. I mentioned it...okay, hold on..whoa! I think that I just saw a tracer come off of my finger. That was crazy. I'm freaking out. I need to clear my head. I'm seeing crap. Get up, Kevynn...,.,.,.,lkl;kl;jgbhcjkhjvuufih

Damn, how could I forget? The Big Lebowski, you bastards. Or bastrads. Or bastiches. I want to take a bath. That would be nice. But it's uncomfortable. I remember when my toes would barely touch the edge of the tub. Now it looks like somebody threw a green bean in a Sucrets tin. Too much lankiness to fit.

Lick it. Goodbye. I hate Sucrets. No spell check. No Five dollar boom boom.

Hulk Smash!...

Don't get me angry. Don't erase my post about the fat lady with the flat tire, and how I tried to help her and be a gentleman, and all that I got was a hint of acknowledgement and another reason to hate cell phones. How Hulk was ready to help the puny human. How hulk was ready to help her change her tire or push it into a parking place instead of in the middle of the street. But the fat lady was too wrapped up in complaining to whoever she was yelling at on the phone. I hope it wasn't her husband. It was probably Domino's Pizzza. Hulk took the time, unlike other people - to see if he could help. Hulk will never change his behaivior, but Hulk's disdain for all of humanity increase by each day. Hulk has always helped people. Hulk wants to super kick fat lady in the crotch. Hulk lost his post.

Hulk is getting sleepy...

Wednesday, May 21, 2003

What It All Boils Down To Is...Who Cares?

Okay, so while I'm here and trying to remember how to write a bibliography...
Who's gonna win on the American Idol thing?

The fat, black man or the skinny, white kid?


First time I smoked pot, my older brother and his friends just stood around and laughed at me. We were all standing around in the middle of his friends street doing nothing anyway. I was whatever age that you are when you're in seventh grade. I liked to ditch school a lot. Or my brother and his friends would kidnap me and we'd stay at one of their parents houses. I used to drink a bunch of horrible liquor with them too. Maybe that's why I only like beer now. I sometimes start to giggle or talk nonsense. I'm fun for about twenty minutes and then I pass out. I can't drive stoned, just can't do it. My friends can operate heavy machinery, make dogs jump through hoops, talk to the president. I start to drool or call you a lesbian. I once dated a girl who made me drink Jack Daniels with her everytime I got beer. She was tough shit and hot as hell, so I drank whatever she wanted me too. I've ingested it all. I've gone through so many different alcohols, It's sick.

Stick a cucumber in me and I shit out a pickle.

Tuesday, May 20, 2003

The New Amazing Spiderman's Coming Out Tomorrow, Habeeb!...

Terrorists should just stay at home and read comic books instead.


I don't skateboard around town anymore. I limp to my dirty car. I have to remind myself to look up. I feel tired. I'm not as adventurous as before. My band is dead. Two cats are also. I talk to homeless men more than I do my sister. Did that sound incestuous or did that sound like I like to have sex with homeless men? I still pretend to listen to people. I want a letter in the mail. A real life letter, written on lined, college ruled notebook paper. I'm sick of all of my music, and all of the choices I make at the store suck ass. I'm glad that I started to read comic books again. I rarely go to the movies. I hate living on the first floor. I still drink and smoke, but still don't do drugs. I haven't had a black eye in three years. That's good. I have ten rolls of film that need developing. I still need a new job. I am lazier. I write less. All of the thousands of pages of stuff I've written are now in the garage and seem less important as time goes by. The Beastie Boys are old. I am not excited about the next Star Wars movie. I wish Bukowski would write a new novel. Oops, he's dead. When I make lists of things to do for the day, half of it is phone call bill bullshit. I still try not to kill ants. I still look exactly like I did five years ago. I never buy new shoes, although I think about it all of the time. Master Of Puppets is a great album. I want to own a house. I pulled a bad ass car move when I was going to the store tonight, but it would be too confusing to explain - but trust was damn cool. Blah, Michael Knight. I still have no appetite. I am learning how to make some pretty fucked up drinks. Where I am, right now would've been perfect when I was twenty-one. I don't write poetry anymore. I am happy, just tired. I still have mistletoe hanging above the front doorway. I think I'll keep it there for another seven months. I may have jinxed myself about something important last night. Knock on wood for me right now, please. Screw the people around you...tell them you're practicing jokes.

I'm not whining - I'm just trying to write more like I used to and to not think that somebody else is reading this. The ha ha's should only come when the ha ha clause delivers the ha ha. You must be good to have Ha Ha Clause visit you. Otherwise, you get a lump of thermo nuclear detonator. I have a report I should be writing, but won't tonight. I can't concentrate. Frozen orange juice has no problem with this. That's why all of the best writers are found in the freezer section of your local grocery. No matter how much time passes, The Pixies still sound cool. I think that the opposite sex still finds me attractive even though I have girlfriend glazed over my eyes. I may be wrong. Maybe they only want a cigarette, or want diet secrets from me. Maybe they want to ask me if my father really did work for a secret, ultra cool branch of the government. Maybe they want to ask me why I don't look either Vietnamese or Irish. Maybe they want to ask me what they should look out for next time they're at the swapmeet, do I want anything besides comic books and skull rings?

Columbus was a fag. So is Strom Thurmond. I wish that Barbara Streisand, post-U-Turn-J-Lo, Celine Dion, Bette Midler, and every girl that cries on a reality show gets pummeled in the crotch by meteorites. Human beings need to get the hell off of this planet permanently. We're giving Earth indigestion. I need to get on the ball with the screenplays and the clothing company research. Joe, Dawne, and I need to be rich. Then I can hire Colobus monkeys to type my thoughts. I hate Columbus, but love the Colobus. I need to remember to ask Cheeks what the weather is like in London. In the 60's and partially cloudy? I can feel the beginning of summer. I hate the summer. I need to buy an ironing board. I can't iron worth a fig anyway, but doing it on the kitchen table is really destroying the miniscule abilities that I do have at it. Chewbacca looks lonesome standing there in the corner, he must've deactivated Threepio because his eyes aren't lit up. I wish that people could carry around Samurai swords. But then we'd have Cingular Swords, and Sony Swords, Ford Swords would suck and would cost more to make in America, the majority of swords would be made in Mexico or in Communist China by political prisoners. There would be designer swords. Donatella Versace would continue her brother's legacy...D&G Swords. Hot Topic swords. McSwords. Would you like to super size that for 65 cents more?

Anybody who reads this must leave a comment in the comment section. I know that you don’t have the time, you may be at work, this may interrupt your porn surfing. But, I'm telling you - EVERYBODY MUST DO THIS OR I WILL STOP PAYING YOUR MOM'S BILLS. It's nice to know that the plants appreciate your singing sometimes. It's nice to collect rent off of, even, Baltic Avenue. Sometimes, it's good to punch yourself in the arm, just to remember that it's still there. Even if you can only say HI.


Thank you, Nasty...

Monday, May 19, 2003

Anti Has The Coolest Link To Me On His Site...

So, I should be writing a report right now, but instead I'll tell you about the Mexican / Techno bar during that art show on Saturday. My girlfriend is one of those poopers that doesn't go for days, but then, when she needs to go - she needs to go. I accompanied her to the bathroom in the back of the art gallery, talked to, the owner, I think that's who he was, and found out they were out of toilet paper. I think that I ended up getting distracted by somebody and then I see my girlfriend again, she said that there was a bar down the street, but she had to buy a drink to use the bathroom, so she got me. Everybody knows I'm good for a few least.

This place was a thug-fest. They had tons of security there who checked out ID's and told us where the line started even though there was nobody there. Serious. There were more employees and security outside than customers inside. The only customers inside the noisy place were a couple of Cholas holding hands and running somewhere. My girlfriend practically ran too, but to the bathroom. So, I ordered a beer from a very nice girl. She seemed out of place. I tipped her a couple of bucks and she acted like I gave her a couple hundred. I shouldn't of tipped her and just given her my cell phone number and told her that I was DJ'ing a quincieneda on the weekend, would she like to come? I didn't have a place to sit. I was the only guy in the main loud room. The security force was outside. Louder music was coming from the side room that my girlfriend ran off to. I wanted to be close to the bathroom just in case she needed my help anyway. The music was so loud that I could feel it up my nose. There wasn't anybody in this room except for two guys trying to fix an overhanging light. I tried to lean against a wall and look tough or interested. I felt like a narc or an FBI agent. I went outside to the patio with the security force. My gal finally came back and told me that there were shower curtains in the girl’s bathroom instead of doors?

Anyway she felt better and then I had to finish my beer. We were feeling out of place and making jokes to ourselves and wondering who the hell actually went there. Where were all the people? Of course that’s when more friends started to arrive for the art show. I could tell they were kind of surprised; it must of looked kind of weird. I'm in an art show down the street and I'm hanging outside of the Mexican / Techno bar on the patio with The Mexican Mafia. I wanted to tell them what the hell I was doing there, but my girlfriend would've been embarrassed. They had drinks at the art show, so there wasn't any reason why I'd be down the street. After that a couple of friends that I haven't seen in a while saw me at the scary bar too. Same thing. We finally came back. I drank more. That's about it. I want to call the Mexican /Techno bar right now and ask them if they have music, and ask them if they can accommodate a party of two hundred.

Lick It. Goodbye.

I'll Post ABout Pooing In The Mexican Techno Bar When I Get Back From Robbing/Going To The Bank...

Her Melly-ness over at Coffee For One will send you kitty pictures. You should send her some art or pictures or toys or something for her new desk at work. You better be nice to her too because she's, like, a nurse or something, and she'll spit in your drip bag / I.V. thing if you're rude and she meets up with you in a hospital. Her and Amy Choppa are also my internet fiancees. Yup, this summer we're gonna throw a Utah / Internet / three-way marriage party. Boz needs to register with the Universal Life Church and to start thinking up what he's going to say in the ceremony. Gifts will be nice. Yup.

Kevynn The Giant Has A Posse...

Damn tired. I may have to write more later today. I just plum tuckerd out. It is nice when friends stop by the bar and get loose. Buy drinks, buy drinks. Everybody should buy drinks. It's the law. I make it so. The art show was awesome. I might have sold a painting. I got really drunk. So did others. We gave a homeless man a bottle of wine and then he got arrested. My girlfriend had to poo and the art gallery ran out of toilet paper, so I accompanied her to a scary Mexican techno bar...

I'll explain more later...too tired.

But, I do have a question though. If you had to drink one alcoholic drink for the rest of your life, what would it be? Human blood doesn't count, either. It has no alcohol content. Well, unless it's my blood...

Saturday, May 17, 2003

Today Is Lucy's Birthday. She is One Year Old. She Is A Dog. I Shook Her Paw Today And Told Her That She Looked Pretty...

Her Raymi-ness, needs some money. You should send it to her. She tells me that she'll give me a cut if you do, or at least we can smoke some cigarettes together. I should go to one of her parties someday, but only if she pays attention to me and hooks me up with drinks. She spelled my name, wrong - but that's okay, because she's Raymi.

Hey, Bubbas. My art show is comin' up and I'm gonna get loose as a goddamn goose. I hope somebody wants to buy something. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Ice cream for everybody then. The doorbell just rang and I yanked open the door and gave a hail Satan sign. It was a girl selling newspaper subscriptions. I apologized and I told her that I thought that she was one of my friends. She kept on looking at my blue nail polish. I think I freaked her out. I'm really friendly to door-to-door people. I think that freaks them out also. Like the two old men who wore Amish-style hats the other day. When they gave me their stupid pamphlet, I thanked them and told them that I would read it. And I would if I could dig it out of the trash without getting dirty. I just gave the girl a donation that I know that she'll pocket. I also gave the guy playing the guitar in front of my work some money for some booze/food. I also tipped the guy who filled up our propane tank at the gas station last night for our barbeque. When he was filling it up, he asked Joe and I something, but we both couldn't understand him. I heard the word finals and started talking to him about the Lakers. He looked sad and said in his Engrish that he was talking about finals for school. Oops. No. Joe and I. We did. My girlfriend does, so I talked to him about Long Beach State. I know absolutely nothing about L.B.S.U. But I still talked about how nice the weather is on campus. Like I know. Tipped him though, cuz' he was a bad ass. He was like the ninja of propane tank refueling. I wanted to smoke and blow everybody up, but there was meat waiting at home - so I didn't.

Say hi to me at the show tonight at Urban Eclectic. Four doors down from The Glass House concert venue. Starts at 8 p.m. Goes til midnight? I'll be looking drunk and bewildered...

Friday, May 16, 2003

Rhubarb Madness By Tom Schmitt...

Atop a small hill, sun sinking behind the hills, carbon dioxide choking the quiet twilight, Beaker was speaking to Prof. Honeydew, wearing nothing but his wiley charms, and Bunson became enraged. That vein, (yes, that one) bulged from Bunson's felt, pale melon, as his eyes reddened, his fingers gripped themselves, creating the fist-phenomena. A cricket sang softly. A fly buzzed, unabashed.
I ask you this, I put forth this motion....
Beaker, unaware of his strange affectations, continued on, high-pitched "Meeps" cascading out in flush, harsh sound waves. See them, watch them, in wonder, wandering through the air. They float, ever-falling as gravity takes them, and crushes them in it's grip. Changing as the air infuses itself within their very core. They collide with Bunsons ear, annihilating the anvil, harrassing the hammer, eating the equilibrium, until the Professor is near hysterics, we watch as he's about to speak, to push forth spiteful syntax, belittling Beaker for his unknowing actions. Restraint prevails, however, at least for now....
"...As time stands still, the soul continues... " speaketh Beaker beautifically.
" descending through space, only easier, open-minded, merging with ions and eros, eclipsing the earth, breathtaking and bungling, a baby aware of the womb and rejecting it for a pentohouse overlooking the New York skyline as city lights wink out rousing the wake to slumber...."
"...nature rejecting the moment for fear of acceptance, for tears of reluctance, for jeers of soaring crowds ripe with disease and putrifaction, stinking like a three-day-old cold, shining oil-like atop the surface of water..."
Beaker relinquishes, the subtle lisp fading.... Bunson stammers on.... and on.. and... on. ......

Kicking Picasso In The Nuts...

Today there were about thirty cheerleaders taking pictures in the park across the street from my house. Maybe I shoud've invited them to barbeque tomight. I'm going to be featured in art exhibit tomorrow night. I was a talking to a girl at a bar last night while she was ordering her drinks and looked ahead and saw a flyer with my name on it. That was kinda freaky, the girl didn't believe that it was me, she said that it was a girl's name, so I started to dig around in my wallet for proof. I don't have breasts. It is not a girl's name. I should've asked her to show me her penis.


I got a haircut today.
I always hated haircuts when I was a little kid.
My father would get pissed at me and demand that I got a crew cut because my hair grows at an alarming rate.
If I was a member of the X-Men, my mutant power would be uncanny hair growth.

I'd be known as bushy crotch boy.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

Fist Full Of Boom Stick...

I have an art gallery showing on Saturday night. How that I happened, I don't know. I don't paint much. One painting every six months, maybe. And I give them all away. But my friends are all talented, and Ryan asked if I had anything, so, I'll have four things at the show. If you're around Pomona, email me and let me know. Keep your knives at home. Thermo nuclear detonators are okay. I’ll be the drunk guy shrugging my shoulders.

I need to call my brother back. I really lag at calling people back. It's remarkable that people still talk to me. You might as well put a message in a bottle and throw it into the sea. You'd get a quicker response that way, mate.

I met a guy who works on a cable show too. I need to call him. Maybe I can write skits or act in his productions. I washed my car today. I went to the comic book store and picked up some free X-Men and Batman stuff for the Mexican worker's kids at my job. I found nothing for myself, fuckers. I rented Catch Me If You Can, The Ring, and The Legend Of Ron Jeremy. I had a lot of fines at the video store, but the guy knocked off sixteen dollars. Why, I don't know. People do stuff like that for me sometimes. Even the kids at the library knock off my fines. Maybe I have a slight mutant power? Maybe people pity me? Last week when I saw X-Men, one of the kids carried my cokes all of the way to my seat. Maybe I'm a good talker. Shit, I would hope that I had a better way with words than with writing. Otherwise? Mr. Hemingway? Please pass the shotgun.

Oh. About my brother. He's 32 and lives in Kentucky, but is going to move soon this summer to Phoenix. He's like a bigger version of me, but with bushy eyebrows. I don't think that you could ever have a brother more different than you. But we both appreciate fart humor and like beer. I forgive him for being the ultimate asshole that he was when I was growing up. He's cool now. You mellow out when you're balding. So, if my brother moves closer to California, this means that I'll at least be able to see one member of my family, right?

My younger sister wants me to visit Austin in early July. I hope that I can, I miss her a lot. In times past, we were inseparable. But she had to move to Texas with my father when she was still in high school. I think that we both suffered for not being around each other. I raised her and she's always been the only girl who I kept in the back of my mind while doing something wacky and crazy. While she was here, she was the only person that kept me from dangling off of a cliff or racing down some freeway. I've had to learn to be a more responsible person without the benefit of her being here, and she has too. I feel that we've missed out on a lot, but the core connection is still around. We still have a horrible sense of humor, and appreciate a good fart joke here and there. Do you see what my family was like growing up, folks?

Damn, I can't concentrate. I think that we're all going to watch the Laker game at my house tomorrow. Maybe I can give you a play by play. Not of the game, but of my freaky friends fiendish actions. Maybe there will be a couple of guest posts. Maybe not. Maybe they'll all get me drunk and take me to the comic book store instead. Maybe? Maybe I'll get a call on that new job? And then I'll be a semi-wealthy guy and get back on track and then I can pay for all of you to come to a BBQ at my house.

I hope you like strippers.

Wednesday, May 14, 2003

I Want You To Curse Me As Hard As You Can...

Curse club, baby.
Tell me off.
Because, we all deserve to be put down sometimes, I think.

And if your imagination fails you, try to work through the alphabet, or just see how many words this commenting system will take.

P.S. I humped your mom. Yes, I did.

Hi, My Name Is Carol N...

Bud LT 12 PK
ARRWHD 15/24
1.48 lb @ 1.59 / lb MINNEOLAS

TAX 1.95
CASH 62.25

05/13/03 10:27 pm

$ 2.31 Toward Wine Club
$ 10.32 Toward FINDING NEMO
$ 17.90 Toward Pet Club

Monday, May 12, 2003


Hey, that’s good. Joe might have set me up a new interview with his job. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Kevynn the waiter/bartender is fun and all, but this job was only supposed to last a couple of months. Not two and something years. But, I don’t regret it. I was a desperate, laid-off, dot com guy. Funny, huh? Isn’t everybody a laid-off dot comer? All of them have jobs or are dead, though. I smile and talk, and look smart in my big, fat tie and wrinkled, white shirt. I ask you how to make your drinks and sit down at the tables with the old men. People ask me how my weekend was. I tell them stories, they laugh. They tip. I follow them to their car, and say, “ Hulk Smash!” and then tip their car over. I wake up in an alley with nothing on but a pair of shredded, purple pants. Nuff’ said.

I don’t know what the hell’s been going on with me recently, but ever since I came back from my two month hiatus, my sense of discombobulation has increased. My fingers don’t respond to me as well as before. There’s a bad connection. My sleeping habits have gotten worse, I think about things to write, projects to tackle, things to start, and my arms fill with concrete. The fire from my brain starts to slow down. Eventually it congeals and solidifies. Making me walk around like an ape. Apes can’t talk; so then people can’t understand me. People can’t understand me, so then I get frustrated. When I get frustrated, I get mad. When I get mad, I get violent. When I get violent, I throw things. When I throw things, my bad aim comes into effect. Old ladies walking their poodles get hit in the ears. They can’t hear me apologize. Nobody is happy.

No, really. I need that old, mad, flavor. The premium gas. The bomp dee bomp. The ramma lamma ding dong. I need to lop off my arm and replace it with a chainsaw. Rip up this keyboard. I need to stop typing like an old woman.

Or, at least, to get an old woman to do my typing.

Lucky Lager Had The Right Idea...

And don't you think that it would be cool if they posted comic strips on the sides of beer cans, Bazooka Joe style? Or maybe like they used to on the thermos things from our childhood lunch boxes? It give some people other things to do other than watch soft core porn and baseball. And you know that by the time the majority of people got the joke, because everybody knows, if you're drinking a tallboy of Budlight in a can, then you're a slow idiot like me - It'd be time to crack open a new one. Or pee. Or to shoot a rabbit from your front porch or something.


Kurt Wagner...

I'm sorry, but somebody just did a google search on fake nightcrawler teeth and wound up on my site. Nightcrawler from the new X-Men movie, not nightcrawlers - the fishing bait. Anyway, kid? Fake nightcrawler teeth? You should have bought some on Halloween for about a couple of bucks. They were right by the Werewolf and Vampire make up.


It is astounding how much trash and dirty dishes a two-person household can produce. If I had kids, it would be worse? Sometimes I think that this place is a factory and that I'm the janitor, and just that nobody's told me yet. Where's my benefits, damnit.

April Greiman?...

Damn, I forgot. A friend of mine gave me twenty bucks to write a paper for her advertising and graphic design class. The dork doesn't even know when it's due. So, I might have to tackle that pronto, Tonto. I used to do a small amount of this in high school. I'd write a paper or monologue for lazy people. I'd get five bucks or a six pack of beer. Even after high school, I use to work with a dumb kid, who had a lot of money or a big allowance or something. He'd pay me a crapload to write his papers for him I didn't feel any guilt with this guy, because he really didn't give a crap about anything other than smoking pot and racing cars. After he graduated, I heard that the kid spent a lot of time in and out of jail. Dummy. But then, he might be doing better than me now, who knows?

Now, I don't feel like writing a paper. I'm either really dumb...or I need to up my asking price, doody-fresh.

Building A Robot...

I just erased my post by accident. Bastards. I just worked almost fourteen hours. Tomorrow, I will do nothing at all. I will try my hardest. I swear. I will pay a bill, and call the dentist back, but that's it. I want to sleep. I will wake up, eat, and then go back to bed. I will Drink beer and roll up my girlfriends change when I am asleep also. I'm serious. I will not answer the phone. I will check my comments. I will dot my eyes and cross my tease. Ha. What? I don't know. That was stupid, yo. I want to do absolutely nothing. I will die for a day and cease to exist. I will hire a Puerto Rican midget to handle all of my affairs tomorrow.

I will love you forever. I will be dreaming about throwing things at your crotch. Thank you.

Saturday, May 10, 2003

The Incredible Mr. Limpet...

I had so many things to say today, and now I'm just kind of puttin' around. I was going to write about a couple of things, but erased them. I just didn't have it in me to write anything that actually required effort. I haven't been able to focus on writing in the last couple weeks or so. I've also noticed that less people visit this, now that I'm not stuck at home with the broken ankle. I had a lot more time on my hands and the opportunity to post more. Maybe I'll jump out of a car again and break the other one? My ankle still hurts and I can't walk for extended periods of time. It starts to hurt and swell up. I felt like a goon at Disneyland the other day. I was the guy, when you're getting off of rides, that slows down all of the people trying to leave. Sorry, folks - but fuck off. Don't make me limp on over to you, try to kick you, and then fall down.

Just Said To Me By My Girlfriend...

You're an angel............of darkness.

Ha Ha Ha! I think.

Thursday, May 08, 2003

The Mud People Cometh...

I live across the street from a beautiful park. Today, when I came home, there was a huge tanker/truck thingy, and a man shooting out new sand out of a big tube into the playground. I stood, fascinated for a bit. I had the urge to call the fire department and see if I could have them shoot an equal amount of water out of their hoses at the same time, so that we could have the mud fight of all mudfights. This is either a kid's fantasy or a pretty homoerotic one.

Then I thought that it would be cool if I slipped the sand guy some bucks to spray some in my backyard so that I could have an awesome summer/beach type party with umbrellas and lawn chairs, but I didn't think that the landlord would appreciate that, and maybe all of the neighborhood cats would use it as one big litter box. I might be tempted also...

So I didn't ask.


Sometimes sleep is good.
Sheep are good sometimes too.

Wednesday, May 07, 2003

The Happiest Place In My Crotch...

The phone is ringing, but I just got a bad feeling, so I'm not going to answer it. After I'm done with this - I'll tell you who it was to prove my psychic empathies. Anyway, I'm going to go to Disneyland or California Adventure to eat, but will be in the parks. Does anybody want anything or want me to punch Mickey Mouse in the asshole again? Since I'm there anyway.

I just checked my phones voicemail. It was my girlfriends work. Nostradamus, I ain't.


I have hit an ultimate low. I managed to lock myself in my car today. Twice. Serious. This type of shit only happens to me. What the hell? It's not my fault. Really. I came home around lunchtime, turned off my car, and couldn't get out. They're automatic. I tried to make it work tons of times and finally had to get out from the passenger side. Then I opened the driver’s side with my key, got back in, and tried it again. Locked myself in again and had to climb back out. I did it again when I went to the grocery store. Now, I can only get out by using the window button and opening it with my hand from the outside door handle. My car's not a jalopy either. It's a decent Camry. I think it's possessed. I think that it's only going to get worse. I think that I need to buy a horse and just take that to work.

Tuesday, May 06, 2003

Cyclops, Iceman, Angel, Beast, Marvel Girl, Havok, Polaris, Nightcrawler, Wolverine, Banshee, Storm, Sunfire, Colossus, Thunderbird, Rogue, Dazzler, Gambit, Jubilee, Cannonball, Thunderbird, Shadowcat, Psylocke...

I wont tell you about what a badass Hugh Jackman is as Wolverine, I'll tell you instead about how fucking cool my mutants friends are, and how lucky I am to have them in Kevynn Malone’s School For Gifted Youngsters. I appreciate their presence. They’re all fucking insane, but in a very special way. I’m a lucky guy, and you’ll never, ever hear me complain about them.

A random day can turn into a party. I called J-of-the-freckles. She was having drinks with M, C, and A. They called me back later to tell me that we were going to watch the Laker game at my house. They don’t like basketball. This doesn’t matter. I’ve slept with three out of four of them, and we’re still friends. That’s amazing in itself, don’t you think? And they don't hate me? I don't hate them for giving me THE CLAP? AND THE HIV? AND THE SARS? I don’t know if that’s really appropriate to say, but this is my writing, and my life, and it’s true, and sometimes when you have, cool-as-hell-friends, and you’ve known them for a million years – shit happens – and the fact that they can still remain your friends and you can even appreciate them more makes it even better. It’s like Hollywood…everybody has slept with their co-stars. I’ve known them forever, so – shaddup. They’re all made of good, unique stuff.

A knocks on the door, like a fucking cop and scares the shit out of me while I’m typing. We have a smoke on the front porch. A has a total of eighteen beers and a hat that says “ Hang Loose!”. C comes. J-of-the-freckles arrives. M arrives. Amy and Tom arrive. Joe arrives. John arrives. Al arrives. We spend more time laughing and being crass, hilarious bastards than anything else.

My sister called to talk about when I was going to visit her in Austin. I was distracted. There was too much stuff going on. I was talking on the phone, and I remember looking around my house as everybody was doing their own thing. C was steaming artichokes in the kitchen; A was eating Taco Bell nearby. Joe was on the computer. John was watching the game; Amy and Tom were talking to Al at his place next door. On and on. People laughing, doing what they want, feeling at complete ease with each other, one friend always calling someone else. Sometimes I can get in trouble in these situations because you never know what the hell is going to happen, or how many people are ever going to show up, but that’s also a beautiful aspect of my life. My friends fucking kick ass and are plentiful, and they're all made of good, unique stuff.

I like the familiar interaction. The cleverness. How they can all feel comfortable and at home at any of our houses. How that, when it comes to humor, all is far game. I like the fact that we spend the majority of our time laughing in unison. I like the fact that my girlfriend is now friends with them all. I like the fact that she has private conversations with them that I’m not included in. I like that they like her and she’s developing special relationships with them. I like when they make plans that I’m not even aware of.

I wish that I had more time to explain all of the funny stuff that I found special tonight, but this is too long already. I wish that I could write you stories about all of my friends. It’s the stuff of notebooks, not of Bloggy-ness. They’re a great source of material for screenplays. Like always, I wish that I could tell you more, but, sometimes, I don’t have the patience. Ask me and I’ll tell you. Otherwise, you should really come over and hang out with us, cuz’ I think that we’re all really pretty fucking funny.

And we're all hot pieces of ass to boot.

Monday, May 05, 2003

Astro Jetson And Scooby-Doo Are Gay Lovers...

I'm glad animals don't talk. I think that they'd be really critical of the human race and put us down a lot. I can just imagine walking down the street and a Labrador telling me that I smell bad. But then they lick themselves in dirty places. But then, humans make fun of dogs for doing that, but you know we would - if we could. Well, some can - but, I'm not that limber. If you were ever at a party and could tell that somebody farted, your talking animal friend would probably be able to tell you.

Animals would get sick of us, and start to form unions. They'd want their own representative in the city council. Some would get sick of humans and try to start their own island community. It would be a secret. Maybe the island wouldn't work, though...nobody would ever pick the dog poop off of the beach. Some animals would form gangs and terrorize the street at night. Orchard members would be extorted. Alpo truck drivers robbed at claw point. It would suck to deliver pizzas. You'd always get a weird pizza order with strange ingredients to be delivered at a strange location. Then the animals wouldn't have any money to pay, and if you threatened to take it back, they'd threaten to kick your ass.

I'd teach animals how to read. I'd take taxis with animals. We'd buy Disneyland annual passes. I'd get them fake ID's. I'd love them, and hug them, and name them George.

And I'd teach monkeys how to type, so that I didn't have to.


Man, Is this how it's gonna be for me every Sunday night? I know that I'm usually up at this time anyway, but if I come home at three in the morning, that means that I'll go to sleep at five a.m. at the earliest. Some of you guys are eating breakfast right when my nightmares are starting to kick in. Friends stopped by the bar, though. That was nice. Bunch of drunks. All of them.

Oh, and by the way. Bartenders are like strippers. They're only there for your money. They pretend to like you and your conversations. The reason why were always looking around is so that we can find something to do to get away from your stories.

Sam Malone, I ain't.

I Found This On Boz's Site, Who Found It On Lucy's...

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)Extreme
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Moderate
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Very High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very High
Level 7 (Violent)Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)Very High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)High

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

Friday, May 02, 2003

Hail To The Thief...

Listening to a burned copy of the new Radiohead album. Good stuff. I think I got drunk last night. Joe came over and we played video games and drank furiously. By the time he left, I was feeling a bit loopy. I think that my long day of work added to the effects of the alcohol. I tried to watch the first dvd from the Back To The Future box set, and apparently fell asleep because I woke up at fo' in the mornin' in my clothes and halfway on the bed. When the alarm woke me up, I felt like a bear had stomped on my tongue and shit in my mouth. I tried to get it together at work, but no amount of caffeine could save this poor child. All of my words were slithering out at a snails pace, and my gimpy leg was worse than usual. After work, I went to the library and paid my obligatory fines. I got a couple of reference materials for my girlfriend's school project, checked out a couple of comic books. David Boring by Daniel Clowes, and Murder Mysteries by Neil Gaiman. I got a Dragonlance book, the new Harry Potter dvd, and that White Oleander/Michelle Pfeiffer movie on vhs. Yes, we have all of that at my library. I'm spoiled, I know. All I got from there was kid Kevynn stuff. I feel no guilt about this. Crime and Punishment can wait, Doestyevsky-however-you-spell-your-name. Then went home and felt like poo. I read some comic book crap, then helped make dinner for my gal's friend's birthday. Then they left to go drink, and I stayed on this damn computer pretty much the whole time in between sessions of laundry. Now the girls are home, eating, smoking bowls, and asking me questions while I try to type this. It was a boring story, but probably is worse because of it. She asked if I wanted to hear about their night and for the third time I just told them no. People never get it. Drunk or not. Don't disturb people when they're trying to write. It’s like fucking with the insane, tripping a man when he's down, poking the wasp’s nest with a stick, tripping a legless man. Please don't talk. If I could find a good cave with high-speed internet access, I'd be there in a second, Bubbalicious.

You ever notice how two girls, drunk, and giggling, can make a house sound like it's being invaded by elephants? I give them twenty minutes and then they're going to pass out. Then I'll fart on their heads. Maybe that'll be my next AudioBlog.

Thank you, and goodnight. Bastards.

Thursday, May 01, 2003


I wish Blogger had an option right next to edit your blog that said edit your dog.
Then if your poodle took a shit on the rug, Blooger'd take care of it.

Hold Me...

Oh, did I have some bad dreams last night.