Nous Avons Casser Des Nouvelles...

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

Grâce à Chezpink.

The Bozzie Awards...

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

Another Reason Why I'm A Jerk...

I was watching a MSNBC segment on this:

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

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

and caught myself thinking about The Simpsons...

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

Here it is ...

The Kenneth V. Cole Fan Club News.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodnight Doreen.

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


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

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

I Understand, Really...

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

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

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

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

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

Moral of this story?

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

Okay...

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

Not that I have stalkers or anything...

Guess Who's Coming To Visit?...

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

Oh, yeah...Google hits, anyone?

As of the last hour...

Spider Monkey Masturbating.
Horse Humping.
Overcooked McDonalds Hamburgers.

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

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

Fat Free Milk, indeed.

Ugh.

Spur Of The Moment...

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

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

Sindy, come back.

I need to pee.