Ancient Astronauts...

Don't worry baby, everything will turn out all right. Just like Dengar in the pic below. All he wanted was a little revenge, and I know that it's not really that productive to spend your life hating a smuggler with an already-heavy bounty on his head, but if trying to chase all of the Han Solo's in the galaxy makes your wounds heal faster - than, so be it. Go get em'. Zuckuss, 4-Lom, IG-88, Boba Fett, Boskk...did I forget anybody else? Bounty hunter scum.

I wish Carl Sagan was still alive. I wish that Jane Goodall and Carl Sagan had a baby - I wish that their baby would end up setting up a colony on Mars. I wish that their UNHOLY offspring would teach all future martians based on the writings of Orson Scott Card, Hank Chinaski and Warren Ellis.

I need to get more boxes and bags for my comic books when I go to the store in between my break tomorrow. Maybe I'll pick some up for my mind too. Preservation = value? Who am I kidding? Boys don't know anything about history. Just ask our nocturnal emissions and masturbatory fantasies. Take out the self-serving-pleasure factor-when-it-comes-to-the-jail break-of-sperm...and you have an Earth with a lot of elbow room. Room to roam, and a kingdom for cats. Meows all over, and a smorgasborg for dogs. It'd be like a comic strip and animated cartoon formula. Itchy. Scratchy. Tom. Spike. Garfield. Odie. Me. You. Spider Man. Venom.

This month should all be about Broca's Brain and about Boca Burgers. Let's all sit around and eat pretend meat and study the fabric of the universe instead of focusing on blogs, Britney, and Bin Ladin. Give me a little Beezus, Bukowski, and Beethoveen. Give me some beer, brain bravado, and beach music.

Let me remember everything that I need to do, and let me forget all of the things that I don't need.

Amen and Top Ramen.

Wit..



I want to learn how to knit.
Is it easy? I hope.
Yes, I'll be your target on this post.
Hey, but, c'mon man - wouldn't that be cool to like, knit yourself beanies and sweaters and stuff?
C'mon, you could make yourself a full body suit if you were bored.
You could make hats for your cats.
Or socks for rats.

Serious.

Barking Spiders...

The coolest thing about farting is that you don't have to use your hands to do it...

Splish Splash Bastard...

It's raining. My drivers side car window still isn't fixed. It won't go up. Thanks to the ass that made it a point to splash me as he drove by when I was at the stop light. AND I couldn't go to the comic book store either. Charlie Brown kind of day, Indeed.

Earthlings...

Howdy.

All My Friends Need Blue Star Ointment...



I'm kind of disappointed with their schedules. The rare times that I stop by their houses, they're either not home or are doing things that can't include me like laundry, dates, and masturbation. Sometimes all of those things combined. I hate it. I'm on strike. Today was my day off. I stopped by one friend's house to borrow that copy of Lost In Translation that she has because she's a SAG hag. She wasn't home. I stopped by two friend's houses, but one was going to go return things from Xmas and then go grab a hamburger. The other was waiting for a girl to come over. Nobody wanted to play poker with me. I mean, c'mon - it's like, free money I'm giving you because I suck at it!Two people I called didn't answer. Now, I know that everybody might potentially hate me. You all just let me know if that's the case. I'll go live on that leper island or that freak show town in Florida or in the Ewok Village on Endor.

Every single time that I want to do something - nobody's around. But guess what happens when I'm working a lot or busy as hell or trying to think about writing.? Hee. Think. Everybody sucks. I'm done with all of you. Yeah, you too. Everybody needs to work according to my schedule. Now. Work it out. You need to be available when I want you to. I'll buy you all Palm Pilots or support you when you quit your jobs. If I'm not in the mood to hang out - you all just need to crawl in your cryogenic tube and chill. I'll call you when I'm ready. Be ready to play poker and to listen to me talk about Fat Free Milk, Paris Hilton, and Comic Books.

Thank you.

Now go away.

I'm thinking about writing.

While My Pen Gently Weeps...

Headphones. Got some for Christmas. Now I need to crawl down underneath the table and plug them in...good. Done. I'm using a lot of periods lately. I must be on my period. Or this is my period period, maybe. Because this is all art now, isn't it? No. It's not. But that's good. Eees Okay, Seenyore.

You know, with these headphones on - I can't hear my girlfriend. She kind of wakes up sometimes in a panic and screams. She's like my retarded cancer patient. Ooohhh, maybe he shouldn't say that because that's cruel to the mentally disabled and maybe he's jinxing himself and now she'll get cancer. Suck it. I know what I'm doing - otherwise, Great-And-Powerful Jeebus would've struck me down with lightning or had a plague of locusts burst forth from my butt a long time ago.

I used to write to music a lot, a long time ago, but that was before shared living with another who studies hard. So I usually write when alone or during snippets of conversation. I can't blare the music like I used to, it disturbs the birds - so these headphones are cool with me. I asked for them. I got them. I will now enjoy fucked-up, loud music. I will now enter that zone again...now all that I need is a blindfold, and I'm set.

Funky Pants...

And it's cold. And My fingers are numb. And Tony and Tom just got done singing a song about pants when I was over at Tony's house after work and I can't get it out of my head. And Tony spilt beer all over his bed. And yes, it was a long night. And I am glad that all of my friends come to the bar because if they didn't - then I wouldn't make any money. And is it wrong to take money from them? No.

And it's time for bed.
And for you to go to work.
And that's all folks.

Merry Christmas...

Stepped In...

Dog poo at work. Came home to a cat poo house.
Cleaned the turtle poo filter in the tank.

Poo.