Word...

Writing, like all forms of expression, can be a pain in the Mons Pubis. The first story I remember writing was when I was five, I think. I was sitting cross-legged in front of the Christmas tree while my father tried to be sneaky and take pictures of me. I have that picture around here somewhere. Beatles mop top hair, khaki pants, skinny as hell. Writing a story about a giant, red robot named Maxmillian. I read it to my shitty-ass older brother later that night and he accused me of stealing the idea from the movie Black Hole. I denied it. I lied, but who cares?

Writing kind of sucks. Once the sick urge infects you, there's no getting rid of it-you're always going to feel like you should be doing it. You'll feel guilty for not doing it or for wasting ideas, and if you're like me, you'll go through intense, sporadics periods of productivity and then slog through a desert of uncreative poo.

Like now. I'm in the desert. That's okay, though. I don't care as much as I used to. I can't sit in a tiny rented room and write twenty to thirty pages full of shit anymore. I try to focus on the quality not the quantity, I tell myself now. That's bullshit, I think. I just don't write as much. I'm not as angst-ridden, I'm more patient and more willing to write when I can, and accept the day as a success if I just wrote anything. That's why writing all of this crud is good. If I'm not going to tackle the big Kevynn Malone projects then at least I can still tackle something when I'm being a lazy punk. It's like getting sacked in a football game and then hitting the waterboy over the head as you make your way to the bench to recuperate.

My spelling sucks. Syntax horrible. I have Frankenstein punctuation. Actually, If Yoda was a writer-I'd be him. Writing, of yours...good-it is not...yesssss? Why does Yoda sound like a snake? I don't know. I've ditched all of my schooling. My earlier literary influences didn't help much either. Mr. Kerouac-No-Punctuation-Don't Stop. Bukowski's poetry. Morrison poetry. Allen Ginsberg-Miasmic-Mess-Of-Form. Hustler reader responses. Ah, but I've done all right considering. I've done some good stuff. I like my ideas and what I've done with them. I'll never be the best writer in the world and who would want to be? I'm content to excrete my own shit and fertilize my life the only way I know how...slowly and with relish. Grimacing and feeling pleasure at the same time...

I'll be rich and famous one day. Everyone else can erase my mistakes. I'll just keep on creating them. After puking my guts out and visiting my harem, of course. And if I ever run out of ideas, I'll just write about Star Wars...

Bye.

Awww, Saara...Just Send Me A Check...

For THIS. All payments accepted.

Thank you.

Now What The Hell Was That All About?...

Checking this before work and I couldn't get it to load.
My web site would come up as the archives for Que Sera Sera.
Not that bad, I guess. At least it was linking to something good.
It could've been embarrasing and linked to my midget porn picture link.

Nothing against midgets and porn...

Small Friggin' World...

Video Store. See Michelle and some guy. She ran up and scared me as I was perusing the childrens videos. I had a Hamtaro-something-or-other thing in my hand. No, not in my butt-thank you, Mr. Gere. Where the hell did the Richard Gere hamster/butt thing start anyway. How, I mean? Damn, that rumor's old-but is there validity to every rumor? It has to start somewhere, right? He was probably shopping for a pet and an employee probably dropped one down his pants by accident. I don't know. Saw Amanda and Mark. I didn't think it was her. I started to run up to her and scare her but then put on my brakes and stopped in the middle of the new releases because I had second thoughts. I back-pedaled and started to cough her name out really loud. It was her. I put a Grease DVD in her hand and told her to buy it. After the video store Dawne and I went to the grocery store to pick up Beer (me), cigarettes (me), and aluminum foil (us). As we were leaving we saw Amy. Made fun of each other. She said I smelled like tuna. What the hell? Do I? Tell me. Do I smell like tuna? As we were leaving I spotted Amy's car and fucked with her windshield wipers, like I always do. I love my annoying humor. Too bad nobody else does. Went home, Mark (another one) and Nadia came over and gave me glasses from Spaghetti Factory. We watched a bunch of horrible, old movies that I made. They left. Amy called and left a message saying that she knew that I would see her car and fuck with her windshield wipers. Yup. That was the last couple of hours.

So now, what should I watch?

Reign Of Fire or Attack Of The ClonesAttack Of The Clones?

Tell me now or I'll kick you in the crotch...

Platypus, Cookie-puss, and Sisyphus...

Sunday is for sleeping, but trying to get up early.
Ummm...probably not writing, even though I want to.
I have to call April and have her come over so that I can rub her pregnent belly. I want to whisper dirty things into her navel.
Not turn on the t.v. unless it's Star Wars related.
Not turn on this computer unless it's really late.
Feed my cat.
Fuel my fire.
Quench my desire.
There's no band practice cuz' Ryan's in France-the bastard.
I'll need to pick up an L.A. Times.
Pick up some lollipops to give to random children.
I need to let it loose.
Lay low.
Aim high.
Eat pie in the sky.
Skate.
Wear something other than black.
Pretend I'm black.
Pretend I'm white.
Waste the day.
Get wasted.
Create waste as a consumer or fecal-wise.
Listen to music.
Play music.
Play in the park.
Play with myself.
Play Bocce ball.
Play dumb.
Play dead.
Playfully tweak your nipple.

Thank You.

Lick me til' your tongue hurts. I'd appreciate it...

When The Time Comes...

We will need to see this movie.

Ouch? What the hell was that? Jeezuz! Pain in my chest. Damn, I'm too young to die. Conan's on-not the conquerer. The talk show host. The body's kind of weird. Slapping you around every once in awhile. Pain here, eye twitch there. Zit. Rash. Erection.

You know, all that stuff, right?

It's Time To Start Thinking About...

These things...

Greedy? Yes.
Ashamed? Hell no.

I Suck...And I Don't Care...

So, I talk about trying to not eat meat.
I Rag on fat people, fast food culture and I hate t.v.

Well, I just saw a Burger King commercial advertising talking Simpsons watches.
All you have to do is buy a value meal...

Hell Yeah!!!

I am so there, Bubba!!! I'm going to order five of every single version and run around the store yelling, "THIS" and punching obese people in their bellies.

This is a good thing.

To Cleanse The System...

Of your Thanksgiving festivities...there's this.

Enjoy.

Hail To The King, Baby...

Whoomp! Here I am. Finished my last post-based-on-reader-comments-thing. Fun? Yes. Glad it's over? Yes? Was the last one a good one? No. Do I care? Ahhh...no. I'm glad Thanksgiving is over. I'm a waiter. I suck. I used to have a good writing job for a fancy-schmancy company and got treated like a baby. Fed for free and flown on skiing trips. A bunch of good shite. No more. Now I pretend to care how your $150 meal was. So, today I worked. Left as quick as I could. Went to the store. Came home. Called Father Malone. Talked about various stuff. Called my sis, Sindy. Read. Wrote. Played on the computer. Girlfriend came home. Now I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Drinking a beer, Phantom Menace is on t.v., and I'm pretending to write. This is a good ending to an otherwise poo-filled day.


Love my butt, please. Thank you.