Hey Pig...

I know it's really bad for me, but I really like bacon.

Porn too, but porn isn't high in sodium...

It's just lacking in moral fiber.

Big-Headed Monster...

I'm spoiled. I don't have to get up as early as I'm used to for my current job. I sleep in on weekends now. I must be getting old because I like to watch Saturday and Sunday morning cartoons, but I just can't do it no mo'. This morning I slept away, whined at my productive girlfriend's noise level, and then finally moved all of the covers from the bed to the couch. She was watching some horrible Charlie Sheen movie. Like there's only one, right? Then she left and I watched The Majestic. I didn't expect to like it, and wasn't going to watch it - but I was too lazy to get up. I actually kind of liked it. Then I started to watch an Ashley Judd movie, but grew tired of trying to figure out if she was hot or not. I wrestled various human food products away from our fat ass cat. Talked on the phone. I dried my girlfriend’s laundry for her while she was at work and realized that I was daydreaming in the backyard with a handful of her panties in my hand. I took out six bags of trash. Six. I don't know where it comes from, but I swear, we seem to accumulate more waste than your mom. I read some of my Chuck Palahniuk book and performed a movement in the bathroom Beethoven would've been proud of. I returned some phone calls, but still managed somehow to not call any of family. I'm bad; it takes me weeks to get back to them.

So when I called back Joe, he asked if I could do him a favor.

I just bought a TV off of someone from work. Do you think you could keep it for me for a while?

Two hours later, during the NBA All-Star game, Joe and Chris came over with it. It's thirty-six inches and now in my living room. After I hooked it up, I screamed because I saw a commercial with John Madden in it and his unusually gigantic head was now even bigger. I started to cry, but then Joe told me that his co-worker also asked if he wanted any free beer. I shut up. Then we ordered a pizza and watched an HBO special on cannibalism.

Hmmmm...do you mind if I use up your space with a big TV, give you forty beers, and buy some pizza? Remind me never to complain about anything.

To quote Ice Cube - Today Was A Good Day...

Cry Me A River...

Yes, I've been listening to that song by Justin Timberlake.

I'm sorry.

Please forgive me.

Toon Town...

Yes, I did go out last night. And yes, I did go see Bridget The Midget from The Howard Stern Show play in a punk rock band. Yes, I did drink way too much. And yes, I did have tons o' fun.

And no, I didn't really see her that well.

She was too short.

My God!...

It smells like farts in here.
My girlfriend made deviled eggs this morning.
Why do eggs smell like farts anyway?
Why don't beans smell like farts?

Do you have any Spiderman comics lying around?

I'll trade you something for them.
Maybe I'll draw you a picture or write a horrible poem.

Really. Cross my heart.

Cool Keith...

Greatest influence in my life?

No, not Liam Gallagher, Rama, Osiris, Gwen Stacey or Boz of The Grand Ennui.
Not that big guy up above either. No, not that jerk - I was talking about Charles Lindbergh. That was a stupid joke.

Anyway...the single, greatest influence I've ever had in my life, was a friend that I had when I was five or something. Ackward sentence? Yes. My father used to drop me off at his house and Keith's mother would babysit us. I don't remember how my father knew Keith's mom. Keith's mom was pretty cool as far as I can remember. And what really qualifies as cool to a five year old? Did she let me watch shitty kung-fu movies? Did she make me grilled cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off? Did she let me make out with her? Did she teach me how to write? Obviously, no. Whatever. She was cool, punk.

I had so much fun with Keith. He had alot of energy. We'd run around in the backyard, play hide and seek, bulid Lego towers and smash them down with our heads, we would scream alot. Out loud, out the window, at the mom, at the moon, whatever. She'd just laugh.

My father never understood me for the genius that I was. He'd get mad at me all of the time. I was always in trouble for something stupid that I did. I'd chop some furniture up with a kitchen knife or rip off all of my clothes in the night. I had an older brother to egg me on. He thought I was funny. So, if somebody else thinks I'm funny, that makes me funny, right? And I should continue, right?

What this boils down to is that my father started to notice that I was starting to act even stupider than normal. He said that I started making up my own language and then I taught it to my older brother. Now, not only did he have one idiot speaking idiot nonsense - he had two little idiots running around speaking gibberish. We stopped playing with our toys normally. We would just nudge them around or stare at them. My father had to re-teach us how to speak and how to play with toys like normal children. My father finally found out that Keith was retarded and I slowly stopped being dropped off at his house. And that was it. i don't know what happened to Keith or his cool mom. I don't know what type of explanation that my father finally gave. All that I know is that Keith was more fun than many of the people that I met years after that, and more honest.

Yeah, he was retarded.
I am too.
So are you.
My girlfriend has been vacuuming the house.
This story was poopy.

Goodbye.

Can You Hear Me Now?...

Watching a commercial for Sprint? with Little Richard. Not to be mean or anything, but I was thinking...why Little Richard? He's wacky, cool and all, and wrote some kick ass songs back in the day - but if I had the chance to see a rock and roll legend in a commercial, I'd rather see tons of different people. Morrison, Tom Waits...George Harrison? Shit, even Ringo Starr...wait, what am i saying?

God bless Little Richard.

I Like To Climb Trees...

Listening to The Pixies and waiting for The Michael Jackson two hour special on ABC...

Very content.

Okay, I Have An Idea...

I will write this post, and then when you comment - I will assign a movie for you to watch based on how well I do or don't know you based upon your website or my uncanny Charles Xavier-like psychic powers. Then...nothing, I guess. Just let me know how much you hated it. My girlfriend is asleep on the couch, also......Reese Witherspoon is being really short on TV, My teeth hurt from the dentist today. Remind me to cancel my appointment for next week, because we have to go to Disneyland to take pictures for our annual passes. It was a gift from me to her, so now I have to get one.

Oh, I'm going with my girlfriend - not Reese Witherspoon. She can go if she wants. She just can't bring her punk-ass husband.

I'm gonna punch Mickey in the asshole too.

Peter Parker...

Call me geeky...c'mon...okay...I managed to get back the comments that were erased by Haloscan's server bullshit. It took some time, trust me. Am I a genius or not? Probably not. BUT, I managed to erase all of the comments you posted today. Oh well. Sorry. I know it's not that big of a deal. We all need lives, but it does suck when you take the time to post funny "ha ha" on somebody else's funy "ha ha" and then come back to nuthin'. It's not my fault. I changed the color of the comments box-thingy too. That's what probably erased the most recent crapola. As a trade, I think it's not that bad. You can post again or I can tell you what you said. No I can't. I am devoid of recollective thought processes.

What am I saying again?

Oh yeah, sorry for the geeky post. This is not my thing. Neither is your mom.

Wubba Wubba Wubba, Downtown Julie Brown signing out.

Kind Of Sucks...

I have no idea why my archives are screwed again. I have no idea why half of the comments got wiped and don't work half the time. I have no idea why my B Stats aren't recording hits in the last 24 hours. I have no idea why everything is slow.

I have no idea.

Sucks.

I'd Love To Beat Her With A Stick...

In bed or in a deserted police station...

I.
Don't.
Know.


Really.

Clear...

I met Crystal through a friend of hers/neighbor of mine that worked with her. They worked at a flower distribution center thingy. I was game, I guess. I wasn't interested in much back then. I knew that relationships took too much effort even though I was unqualified to pass that judgment considering that I had never really willingly thrown myself in the commitment pool much. We started off with email. Then arranged a first date. Then I caught myself watching cooking shows in her boring-ass living room constantly. I watched all off my friends totally ignore her after seeing her drink a bottle of beer from in between her boobs. She talked constantly when she was socially nervous. Her favorite band was Counting Crows. She used to collect Crayola Crayon merchandise. She was an orphan. She didn't have silver dollars for eyes...she only had...me. It only lasted for...seven months? She got in a fight with my girlfriend before her, I got a new job that intimidated her. Ummmmmm.......

There was no particular reason why it didn't work out. It just didn't. There was no bad blood. No huge fights. That's kind of scary too, isn’t it? Shouldn't every great relationship have some major differences? But there wasn't anything. She was nice. I was too. We never talked about marriage or where the relationship was going to take us later. I really don't remember any significant moments with her. I'm not being apathetic. I just don't. We broke up amicably. She tried to come back to me later. I didn't bite. She left disappointed a small number of times. I didn't call back. That was it.

No bad blood.
Nothing wrong.
No horrible stories.
Boring story.

Great relationship, don't you think?

Michael Jackson, Spider Bites, Dangling Children Off Of Balconies, Nose jobs, Chimpanzee Molestation, And Sleeping With Young Boys...

I didn't say anything, did you?

Let's go climb a tree...

Cat Scratch Fever...

After the cigarette, I came back inside my house and saw three cats inside.

Only problem is...I only have...TWO.

Ouch.

Real Quick...

Sorry. Watching the Osbournes-but MTV sucks, doesn't it? It has for almost all of my life...

Gotta question though....

How can they justify blurring out someone's butt crack when SNL was showing a plumbers butt crack in the late seventies-early eighties...

Seemed kind of stupid...

But it's MTV.

My fault, sorry.

What The Hell?...

I'm so confused. I just found out that my old grade school has a website. It was a random thought that crossed my mind and one Google search later?...I'm transported back to a time that I remember well, but seem to have forgotten at the same time. There's a picture of the school posted on the site that makes me think of my first day of kindergarten, almost being blown away by the wind in storm when I was in second grade...being a bad boy in sixth...so many memories that would probably bore you to death...I remember how fortunate I was to go to a good school, and I remember how straight-fucking-insane all of the children were in the city that I grew up in. I swear, there must be something in the water because everybody I knew was hilarious, but would kill you in a second. Too much of an overload, I'll tell ya'.

Here's something else...there was a staff list on the website. Most of the names were unfamiliar, but my second grade teacher still teaches there! Yeah, the one who screamed when I opened up the door during that windstorm. I got off of the bus last. It was a horrible, rainy, and windy day. I'm thin now, but back then I looked like a little balloon. I was about as heavy as a kitten. I made the mistake of trying to peek into my older brother's fifth grade class like I always would. The class would wave. I'd make a funny face and the teacher would playfully throw something at me. I started to move towards the windows of my brother's classroom but almost got knocked off of my feet. The big-ass, stupid, adult umbrella that I had, captured the wind and almost carried me away. One foot wasn't touching the ground. I had to hold on to a pole so I wouldn't fly away. I'm serious. I was holding on with all of my strength and could see the laughing heads of my brother's class through the windows. Some were pointing at me. Some looked like they were laughing so hard that they were crying. No one was helping. Visions of Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins went through my head. Did they think I was kidding? I wasn't. I was seriously in danger of being lifted into the air. Everybody would've been really sad if months later they found a thin, little skeleton stuck in a tree somewhere.

I don't know how I did it (maybe I put pebbles in my shoes), but I started to walk to class. I, of course, took the long way around with nothing to duck under. The rain was hard and howling. I tried to make it from pole to pole. My umbrella would flip inside out, I'd face the wind and then it would correct itself. When I opened up the door, it banged open. I don't remember how I shut it. All I remember was the silence. Every head in class turned to look at me. I saw a room full of little mouth "O's". I could hear the dripping of my clothing on the linoleum floor beneath me. Everybody laughed until my teacher screamed, "Oh my god!" and then was promptly arrested for preaching her bullshit religion in my class. No, just kidding. She swooped me up in her fat arms (maybe she wasn't fat, y'know? She could've been normal-sized. Maybe I was just so small that she seemed like a huge ol' fatty. I bet she was quite hefty though. Aren't all grade school teachers?) and put me in some room that I'd never seen before with a washer and dryer and started to take off my clothes!!! She got this weird look in her eye when she started to undo my wet jeans. Just kidding, you perverts! I'll tell church stories some other time. Ha. She took my clothes and put them in the dryer and searched for something for me to wear. I'd kill for a picture of the twenty pound second grader with the Beatles hair, shivering alone in a school laundry room. Actually, you would too, huh? You pervert! NO, SHE CAME BACK WITH AN OVER-SIZED PAINTERS SMOCK! I had to sit in class wearing only a multi-colored, blotchy, painters smock. It looked like something Boy George would wear.

They finally contacted my mother, which scared me even more. My mother was a drunk and Vietnamese-I don't know which is worse. I guess I'm still trying to figure it out, because I guess I'm both right now too. Ha. Yoo reciv petic justuff!, my mom says. See, I've never looked like I was a half-bastard Asian. My fathers strong and stubborn Irish genes kicked the asses of the gook genes that were in my body, so there ain't no slanty eyes on this face. I'm also not devoid in the crotch area either. Thank you, Ireland.

Fuck. Where was I? Oh yeah...drunk, gook mothers. I was terrified that she was coming to school to pick me up. I was surprised too because, she'd never been there before. Was she going to get the class drunk? Two hours later, when she came-I got lucky because they just told me that she was there and I could meet her instead of her coming into my class. She probably would’ve embarrassed me by taking down the address of every classmate of mine and recording the name of their pets. But it might have saved us money on food, so who knows? My little sister was there too. She must have been about...shit; she's four years younger than me. How old is one when they're in second grade? Anyway, she was small and whimpering in the passenger seat when we were driving home. The storm had turned worse. My mother wasn't drunk, but remember...she's Asian. So instead of driving fast and avoiding all of the flying shit all over the place, she drove about ten miles an hour. Everything that was moving through the air was faster than us. I saw a huge tree branch crashing down and fall behind us, blocking the road. My mutha didn't notice. I think she was singing along to The Steve Miller Band. Oh yeah, also? My little sister was probably already taller than my mother by that age.

We made it home and then my mother tried to drink me. End of story.

Sorry about that, ol' chap. I don't know where that came from. I ignored the story about my sixth grade teacher. Not much about him anyway except that he looked like Chuck Norris and would get red-faced furious at me every time that I called him that. I should call him up. I swear! Oh my god! I sound like an adult now; I don't think I have the balls for it. Do I? I want to call him and say, "Hi Chuck!" just like I always used to. I could tell he wanted to bash my fucking head in when I said that. He'll know it's me, won't he? If I did that I wouldn't be able to eat in the school cafeteria now, like I want to. Which leads me to my last part......

One final thing that I noticed on the website of my elementary school was the menu. I don't know why they have that on the site. Maybe it's kind of smart. Kids must dig it because then they could see when the pizza and the grilled cheese sandwiches are being served and ask for junk from home on the other days. Maybe all of the dirty, hippie parents can check up on the menu too, and see when the school's serving something veggie-friendly. Anyway, guess how much a school lunch was when I was a kid? One dollar. Not that bad. You got the main dish, three sides, a dessert, and a milk. The poor kids had a discounted lunch for thirty-five-fucking cents. Dudes, I'm not old. I'm an eighties kid, but thirty-five-fucking cents is the shit. I mean that in a good way. So guess what the price is now? I'm gonna smoke...I'll let you think about it for a while..................
................
......
Okay, I'm back......
.....
THE PRICE IS STILL THE FUCKING SAME! Can you believe that? Is that the one thing in the world that hasn't risen in price? Wow and double-ass Wow. Poor kids can still get a lunch for thirty-five-fucking cents? Who are they sponsored by, McDonalds?

Hail Mary, y'all. I apologize for my vile verbosity.

Vini Vidi Vietnamese.

Good night...

Underwear Where?...

So if i'm washing both my boxers and her panties in the same load,
I'm pretty much engaged, huh?

Hitler's Dog...

I was reading an article about Traudl Junge, Adolf Hitler's last secretary. Wow. Hitler's private secretary? I thought my job was fucking weird. There's a new documentary that screened at Sundance all about her experiences from 1942-1945 called Blind Spot. Reading through the article, I, of course took my normal approach to all things immensely serious...I started to think about Hitler's dog, Blondie.

Yeah. Hitler had a dog. He had a fucking dog. I can't get that out of my mind. Hello, Ruff! I'm Hitler's dog! I can do whatever I want. Can I eat your fingers off? Yes, thank you. Yum. From what I've read, Hitler was completly infatuated and obsessive about Blondie (Not the band). He spent entire evenings playing with her. Hitler got jealous when others petted her. He got excited if she jumped higher than usual. Hitler sounds like a typical boyfriend, actually. Hitler disliked meat, cold rooms, having flowers around (he hated dead things) and being touched. He always washed his hands after playing with Blondie.

Would it be a blessing or a curse to be the canine friend of Adolph Hitler? Would that be equivalent to being the goldfish of Osama Bin Laden? I'd be scared. Maybe, Blondie, as a dog, was happy. She obviously had a master that loved her. Blondie was a German Shepard, of course. I wish that there was such a thing as a Jewish Shepard and that Blondie was actually of mixed blood. Well, I guess that there actually are Jewish Shepards if you you count those that raise sheep. What other nationality doesn't have their own breed of dog? Vietnamese don't for obvious reasons. I wish that I could've been there the first time that Adolph got pissed on. Does the dog of Adolph Hitler go to heaven? And if Adolph Hitler, of all people can own a pet, why can't Satan? As far as I know, Satan doesn't even own a houseplant.

I don't know.

Home Ec...

Seems kind of pointless now that I'm older. All of the shit that I learned how to make, I don't remember now. I once baked a perfect cake in seventh grade, do you know that? Yeah, try getting me to make one now. I'm actually a good cook, but only since dating my girlfriend. I have to or we won't eat. She's so bad, she even burns water. For the end of the year final, my table that consisted of all of my friends, had to make a specialty dish and dessert for a teacher of our choosing. All of the other tables always tried to pick the cool teachers. We picked the ugliest, meanest and fattest one. She taught English and looked like Ursula The Sea Witch from The Little Mermaid. We made yummy hamburgers followed with Ex-Lax-laced brownies. We also got in trouble in class constantly, hit on the big-breasted girls at the table in front of us, and had to bribe the female teacher with daily hugs everyday so that we never had to go to detention. They passed me out in class one day and I had a dream about trains.

I took Home Ec. in high school also. I only did it for the free food. I made the worst chili in the class because I didn't know that I had to drain out all of the liquid from the vegetables. A freshman girl punched me in the face. I stole crackers. I watched countless hours of The Frugal Gourmet. We had a final in that class too. So my friend Joe and I invited out guitar teacher. We made Cornish game hens and wild rice from scratch. After eating his food, he asked us, " So does this mean that you're finally going to come to class?" I told him, "No, that's why we're giving this too you."

I should've learned how to brew beer. It would've saved me money.

Fucking school. Blah.

Hey!...

I'm naked.

How do I look?

Before I Write This, I Need To Smoke...

Obssesive Compulsive Disorder and eating habits when combined are always fun. Somebody at work told me about a friend of his that only ate shapeable food from the cafeteria. Mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, etc. He would shape it into a perfect square and then scoop up a corner. He wouldn't eat another bite until he had reshaped it again into a perfect square. My friend Tony only eats hamburgers and sandwiches in a circular fashion. He'll eat around the edges until he's left with the middle and then he'll pop it into his mouth, the fairy. My girlfriend eats absolutely nothing on the bone, including my penis. I always have to say "Winston Churchill was a big fatty!" before taking a swig of beer. I say that about a milllion times a day. Really, I don't know if I have an OCD attached to an eating habit. I will never eat anything if I can't drink something with it. It's absolutely impossible for me. I won't do it. Maybe that counts.

I used to have a couple Obsessive Compulsive habits when I was young. I would constantly count things in my head. Chairs in a room, telephone poles...sluts in my bedroom. I had to force myself to stop when I got older. Especially with the sluts. I used to play that game in which if I didn't do something like make a basket, I would supposedly die. Or that someone near and dear to me would die if I didn't do something correctly. I've died about a million times.

I want a real OCD, but I would like to pick my own. Obsessive money making compulsion. Sleeping with loose movie starlet disorder. What about a pick pocketing OCD? Something helpful...

All I've got is this writing thing.
Not as fun.
Obsessive? Yes.
Compulsion? Yes.
Disorderly? Yes.
Good? No.

What Does This Say About Me?...

I like this. I hope it never goes away. God, the animation is horrible, but it's sweet isn't it? If it had private parts, I would hump it. I need to option this story idea and make it into a movie.

There's no hope for me, is there?

Goodnight.

Now Hiring...

I am lacking a gay friend in my life. (No, I'm not looking for a gay partner, smart-ass.) And my friend, Chris doesn't count either. He's just confused and has a bedroom that looks like a gay man decorated it. So, I am now accepting applications for a gay friend. My new gay friend can be a girl or a guy. If my new gay friend is a girl, she has to be hot and let me watch her nocturnal activities. Short hair is okay. Motorcycles are okay, just as long as you have an additional helmet for me. I get to use your hair products and nail polish. You can only bench press ten more pounds than me. (That doesn't make any sense...my cat eats more than I can bench press.) If my new gay friend is a guy. It's okay to hold my hand, but only inside Disneyland. You must purchase me a sweater or two every month. I will only watch gay porn with you if it is funny gay porn. You must pay for the majority of my drinks and meals, because you'll have a better job than me. I get to use your hair products and nail polish.

Applications are now being accepted for this once-in-a-lifetime position...

Gay position? Oh, mannnn....

Everyone Hates A Clown, So Why Don't You, Bitch?...

There's two ways that you can go with clowns: They either scare the crap out of you, or you fucking hate them. I'm not really scared of clowns; I just don't ever want to meet a fat one. For some reason, the thought of a portly clown with a five o' clock shadow makes me feel all John Wayne Gacy. Believe it or not, the other half of society absolutely hates them. Let's stop this clean face on grease paint crime!

I've had a good number of strange-ass jobs in my youth, or my more youthful youth-i-ness, I should say. I think I've said it before. I've been a professional puppeteer, pizza cook, manager of a drycleaners (need a spot out of your silk shirt? You just let me know, punk.), I've written for magazines, cartoons, and papers for your high-schooler for beer money, etc. But the worst short-winded job that I've ever had, besides my two-day telemarketer job, was as a clown. You got it...a fucking clown. What was I thinking? Where was this going to take me? Did I think that eventually I'd get clown salary and clown benefits? Take winter vacations with other clowns on really big skis? I wasn't even a drunk birthday party entertainer clown...I was a shabby-ass-street-corner-sign-waving-come-to-these-new-apartments-clown. You know that series of famous black velvet clown paintings? I was sadder than those clowns.

Hold up...Jeopardy's on...

Oh my god! The President's talking instead. Damn! But wait...he's talking about mutilations, razor blade what’s? Acid?.....is he talking about drugs?...no...I'd rather have Alex Trebec quiz me about this twenty years from now than hear George Bush talk right now..." We will lead a coalition to disarm him..."

He's not talking about clowns is he?

Anyway...there I was on the first day, feeling very embarrassed but much more desperate for money. The manager of the apartment complex actually gave me the make up and some stupid balloons that hade the name of the apartment complex on them. I thought that getting the balloons printed and having me hold them in addition to the sign was completely stupid, and who could see the name of the apartment complex on the balloons as they drove by? I didn't hold the balloons. I couldn't. I had to hold the stupid arrow sign with two hands, so I tried to tie them to a skinny tree branch. One got loose automatically and a car honked. I didn't know if they we're honking at the clown with the crappy make up job and the baggy jeans on, or if they were trying to tell me that my balloon was getting away. I thought that was even stupider. I could tell that it got away. I was the one on the street corner. Only one good thing came out of the balloons. I tried to give one to a little Mexican kid who was walking with his mother, but the kid wouldn't come near me, so I had to give it to his mom. I said thanks to her as she walked away. She didn't say anything. I didn't know if she understood me or not. I didn't think that there was that much to understand. I was trying to give her brat a piece of floating rubber. I said, " thanks!" to her too, as they walked away. That pissed me off to no end. I hate when I thank people for no reason. Especially when I'm the one who should be thanked, y'dig?

The first hour was probably the worst. I didn't want to dance around, so I just kind of rocked back and forth. One out of every fifteen cars would honk. I tried to wave back, but the arrow sign would then tip down, so I stopped doing that and just kind of gave a nod that I knew the speeding cars wouldn't see.

The first "Fuck You!" that came my way surprised me. I looked around. I thought it was probably some kids. I didn't really catch a glimpse. I don't know how much time passed until somebody told me that I "Sucked!” Somebody threw change at me. It missed me and hit the curb. I was bummed, but not bummed enough not to look to see if there were any quarters in there - which there weren't. During that day I got two flip offs and one or two more "Fuck You's!" The whole day was one big, long depressing blur after that. After the car that said, "Fuck You, You Fucking Clown!", I left. I waited for the car to pass me by further because I didn't want them to see me leave. I left the balloons on the weak-ass tree because I didn't want to carry them. By that time anyway, they would've been too heavy for me to carry. All I did was drop off the stupid sign at the manager’s office that smelled like cigarettes. There was nobody inside. I checked. If there was, I was just going to drop it off around the corner anyway. I washed everything off of my face by the pool area bathroom, paranoid that the manager was going to see me. I walked home and I think I remember not being very happy, writing a couple poems about people, and drinking a lot. I could be wrong, but I think that's what I did afterward...

You know what's worse than a clown?

Being one.

Fuckers.