Crap...

All the things that I want to write about might take me to long to do. I have a couple of things to tell, but think that they would be better explained tomorrow due to the late hour and my over exposure to alcohol...I hope that I just made sense, bubba...

All that I can tell you is that it has to do with my three hour trip to IKEA today and about junior high school parties....

Green beans and Empire Strikes Back. That's what I'm all about right now. Yeah, I'm down for some smart Han Solo dialogue and some Jolly Green Giant Lovin'...

Oh yeah, fuck you, Lando Calrissean!

Lobot's cool, though...

Somewhere There's An Island Full Of People Just Like Me...

And here's another thing. When I go to clothing places and shop for jeans, It's kind of funny that the only sizes that I find on sale in the clearance rack in the back section of the store are either XXXL or 32 waist and 32 length, which is my size. 32/32, not the XXL.

Me...

Who starts editing a story for a Marvel Comics submission at 4 in the morning?
Yeah...
I suck. I know...

I Wanna Eat Yo' Brains...

So I guess that my sister made the transformation from a vegetarian to a full-fledged VEGAN now. This is a huge step for her, you know. I'm totally behind her on this. So I'm going to suport her 100%. So that means no more baths in cows blood when I come to visit. That means no more animal sacrifices when I pray to Satan. I'll now be using a soy substitute instead. This means no more Jello baths too. No more Chihuahua tossing. No more eating the worm from the bottom of tequila bottles. No more washing spiders down the plughole. No more meals at my vietnamese mother's house. No more bacon. No more Porky Pig cartoons. No more Moons Over My Hammy's. No more Just In Quesidillas. No more Moons Over My Hammy. No more, I tell ya'. No More!

Sindy is my little sis. She rocks. Next time you see her, slap her with your leather belt for me...

Rock And Roll High School...

You know, the only reason I'd ever want to go back to high school is so that I could go to all of the dances and pass out drunkenly. I'd tell all of the nerds to kiss my shoes and then tell them to please hire me ten years later. I'd make out with the dance teacher. I'd kick the principal in the balls. I'd steal all of the raffle prizes. I would nominate myself for queen of the dance and I would have taken a lot more naked pictures of dumb cheerleaders.

Hmmm...Interesting...

I'm a pretty easy-going guy when it comes to understanding about staying out later than one expects. Time passes quickly. Drinks happen. Friends. Conversation. Whatever.

What I don't get is what I was talking about earlier. About how you would get very mad at me if I did some of the same things that you did.

Like: I understand if you just want to hang out with your friends without me being included - just tell me. Don't assume. You used to get mad at me about this type of crap all of the time. Now I don't do it. Who was the gal gettin' ready before she even let her significant other even know that she was going out. To be honest, I didn't want to go anyway. I hate where angelica works. It sucks. But if I was getting ready to bolt out the door before telling you what the hell I was doing, and assumed that you wouldn't mind not even being told that I'd rather go out by myself with friends? Fuck, you wouldn't let me live it down.

Like: Not calling the whole time you're out?

Like: Having Angelica call me after you were apparently too drunk to drive? You could apparently get to her house, but not ours?

Like: If you are at her house, then why don't I pick you up?

Like: If you're drunk, you know I'd pick you up or get you home somehow. If you wanted to stay at her house, all you have to do is let me know.

Like: What the fuck were you doing this whole time?

Like: If I can learn how to be a considerate partner, then what happened with you? You can't call me once?

So: Did anybody else stay at Angelica's house?

So: Did you not think how you would feel if put in this situation?

I really am and was cool the whole time until after 2 a.m. I puttered around the house doing my own thing. Angelica's call left me flabbergasted and saying, "Okay...whatever."

If I spent the night and had a friend tell you...how would you feel?

It doesn't really instill a boatload of security and trust in me about your trip to Europe, does it?

I am waking up 10 - 10:30 to have lunch with George.
Please don't wake me up because I won't feel like talking about it...

Kevynn

Malthusian…

Socially, today was not a good day. Everybody that I passed by or came in contact with disgusted me. From the attitude of the older man who tried to cut in line in front of me at the store, who I, at first, was polite to, and then had to be mean to, to the other dirty, creepy cretins who infiltrated my sunshine for the other portions of the day. People were rude, lazy, and impatient. People were driving too fast, and not giving a shit about anything except for their own "progress". Taco Bell will still be there, folks. You driving faster won't really make a difference. Your cheap tacos will always be around. There are no bombs dropping overhead in America, people. Not right now, at least. You can go with the flow. No need to hurry. I am disgusted at your laziness. I am disappointed at your lack of empathy. I am not surprised at your tunnel vision. You're all very hungry, so that carrot dangling in front of you is all that matters today, I can understand that. Just try not to involve me. If I speak to you, be polite back. I always give you the benefit of the doubt. Please return the favor. I'm trying not to show you my weaknesses or to make your day any more unpleasant by letting my insecurities, worries, and my bad upbringing rub off on you. Please do not let your children outside if they're just a carbon copy of your bad habits. I don't need to see the miniature examples of your inability to raise children. Dealing with one of you is enough, let alone one and a half of you. You didn't really ruin my day; you just made it a lot harder to enjoy. You made my sky a couple shades darker. You made me feel colder than I should have. I exerted more energy than I should have. Now it's lower. I might have to recharge all of the batteries that you tried to deplete today. I used to try to be apathetic. That never worked. It doesn't work at all, it just gets you angrier. I've tried hard getting rid of that, so I'm not going to let you get me back into it. I came to the realization that I wasting too much of myself towards something that I can never change. I think that the happy, gray area that I've created is just fine with me. I've got enough to think about now without you fucking it all up. I'm glad to meet you sometimes. And sometimes I'm glad that I can walk away. I'm glad sometimes that I don't need to say something to you all of the time. I'll still say something to you if I think that you're out of line or if you infringe on my personal space or enjoyment, and watch out -cuz' I'll rip your fucking head off, but I'm glad that your monsters don't hang around my house as much as they used to. It gives me more time to do the things that I want to. That's it, I think. This could go on forever, but maybe that's another good sign of mine. I can let you go, like some black dandelion floating off in the stinky air. You're forgotten, spread your seeds elsewhere. You dummies. You make me remember how happy I am with myself. You make me feel good. You make my parents proud.

Thank you.

You dumb, fucking sheep.

Malocclusion...

You ever get an idea for something to write, but then think that it's too long and you don't really feel like writing it, editing it, etc. Maybe you don't feel like getting started or continuing on something that you know that you should be devoting two hours on instead of two minutes. Maybe you just want to write something quick and witty like everybody else. Quick and witty is good. Not in bed though. If you're ever quick and witty in bed, you better be quick, witty, sorry, and a very fast runner. Maybe you start to write something and then erase it. Maybe you actually get started and then accidentally delete it afterward. Maybe you get that fever going, the pen is scribbling furiously, or the keys are clackin' - but then get interrupted by the phone or a visitor. You may be the mousy writer. A little sentence here, a short story there. Maybe you're the Manatee writer. Slooowww, floating, bloated. What? Sorry. You may be the type that works on a novel for years, it may be your little secret that you do when everybody is away. You may write alone, slowly building up stacks of notebooks, or files on your hard drive. Maybe one day you'll croak, and when they wheel your butt away, all of your work will be forgotten or thrown in the trash with the other things that can't be donated or sold. You might spend more hours staring away into space then actually writing something down. You may daydream more at work then you write at home. You might jot down more ideas on scraps of paper than you actually write down in a cohesive manner. You could be a defeatist, and feel that you were a better writer when younger. You may think that you have nothing to write about. You might be confused as to how to get it down properly. You might not have the time. You could be going blind. You could be waiting for inspiration to strike. You might like kung fu more than writing. Or kung fu movies. Or kung pao chicken more than writing. Maybe you're a specialist writer - nothing to say about anything until it comes to this summers line of shoes by Prada. Maybe you've always wanted to write, but don't think that you have much to say. After that, somebody will ask you how the Cubs are doing this year, fifty minutes later; they're squirming to go to the bathroom.

Or maybe you just take the easy way out and write something like this...

Elmers...

So I'm stuck in that one part in my screenplay where that guy is done from that last town and he woke up and then went and peeked into that thing...

She Is Very Sad Right Now...

My girlfriend got her first white hair today and I feel personally responsible.
But, I mean, she is like...seventy-nine, c'mon! So it can't be all my fault.

Noodles...

Roberta was angry because Liam kept on stealing her hairbrush. She knew where it was. It was in the backyard, by the little storage house. Liam always used it to brush the next-door neighbor’s pony’s hair. He was five, but that was no excuse. This was the second brush that she had to replace. The last one Liam couldn’t find. He said the ponies must’ve stoled it. But the horses didn’t steal it cuz’ Roberta found it by the play set a long time after. She tried to tell dad about it, but he usually got mad if you tattle-tailed, so Roberta stopped and just made sure to punch Liam good before dinner, but then Liam told dad that Roberta punched him for no reason and when Roberta was trying to explain, she got in trouble for being a “brat”, and that she was older so why did she always have to be so “violent” and then she had to go to her room and miss supper. Not that she minded because it was the same old, stupid fried rice that made the whole house smell like fish, anyway. The only good parts were the egg and the shrimp. Dad only made it because he made the same things anyway. He always made spaghetti too, which was good if you put a lot of sauce, cheese, and black olives on it. If they had it. But than dad would get mad if he saw that you put too much stuff on it. He’d tell you not to be “greedy”. Roberta thought that she wasn’t greedy. She was just trying to make it taste good and not like the noodles. The noodles were gross-tasting and why didn’t they make more of the other stuff? Why not just have it with the sauce and the cheese and olives, then? The only good time that they had spaghetti was when Liam was carrying his plate with the spaghetti and his milk and saw the Spiderman movie commercial on TV and dropped the plate of spaghetti on the carpet and then dad got mad. That was funny because Liam cried and had to rub the carpet good with a rag while everybody ate. That was the only time that the spaghetti tasted good. Roberta even had seconds.

What Invention Was/Is Of Greater Benefit To Mankind?

Eye glasses?
The printing press?
Condoms?
Birth control?
Toilets?
Or The Simpsons?

True...

When it comes to houseplants - my girlfriend is like "Lenny" from Of Mice And Men.

The Kelly Affair...

As the new President of Iraq, I command you to listen to these songs.

Do it now and I might give you a cookie, nigga.

Billie Holiday Playing Is Not Helping...

So, I was in the process of telling you what was in my fridge, after I got down to the half empty/full jar of Skippy peanut butter - I stopped and started to eat the half empty/half full chicken sandwich from the barbeque last night. This was happening while I was still sitting on a little stool in front of the open fridge door. I put away the sandwich and felt very foolish. Oh, I need help.

So Not Money, Baby...

So, a lot of my friends are in Vegas for the weekend without me because I'm a gimp.
They rented a big ol Caddy' too. I'm doing nothing right now.
I hope that they win a nice and leaky STD while they're out there.

Thank you...

Sleepy......


I am thin. I don’t look like I’m dying or anything, but you’ll live if I sit on you.
I love beer.
I love cigarettes.
I can’t hang with anything else.
I like Jane Goodall.
And the Dalai Lama.
I think Stephen King is one of the best modern writers ever, punk.
I hate funny books.
I generally don’t like comedies, unless it’s not supposed to be funny, but is.
I have one younger sister, one older brother, one older half-brother, one older half-sister, and one younger half-brother. None live in California.
I play bass guitar.
I paint one picture every six months.
I like action figures, skulls, and other scary shite.
I like comic books.
I miss typing on typewriters.
I read two newspapers a day.
I poop at least twice a day.
I can cook, but usually don’t eat it afterwards. I’d make a good personal chef.
I have some really cool friends.
All of my enemies are dead.
I never write on the things that I should be.
Gandhi was a pussy. No, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean that. I have no idea where that came from. Bad.
I am writing in a wheelchair right now. 20 bucks at the Salvation Army, yo.

I am tired......

The News Asks…

Who Will Run Iraq Now That Saddam Hussein Is Missing?...

Well, shit...me, of course.

I am now taking applications for certain seats in the government and the new Iraqi entertainment industry. I'm anxious to see the Iraqi cinematic equivalent of Hollywood do their take on Spiderman, to be honest. Spider Raed? As the new leader of Iraq's government, I will give them full access to America's TV programming too. All of it. Good riddance. Now, I'm sorry...this doesn't mean that I'm gonna unload all of America's crap to Iraq now that their government is in a state of disarray, but we don’t want it, right?

State your name, website, and your new official Iraqi position please…so that I can put it in my official ledger…

Found This On E-Grrl's Site...

Kevynn Malone is a Litter-Eating Pirate Monkey ...with a Battle Rating of 5.1 To see if your Food-Eating Battle Monkey can defeat Kevynn Malone, enter your name:

Black And Decker...

After I was done playing the PS2,
I grabbed my Bud Light
and went outside to smoke a Marlboro,
then I sat down in front of the Hewlett Packard computer
and flipped on HBO.
Harry Potter was on.
Then I typed this on my Blog.

I'm a tool......

"In the world I see -- you're stalking elk through
the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center.
You will wear leather clothes that last you the rest of your
life. You will climb the wrist- thick kudzu vines that wrap
the Sears Tower. You will see tiny figures pounding corn and
laying-strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of the
ruins of a superhighway."

~Tyler Durden~

Not About Your Significant Other...

Nastiest thing in the world?
Roaches.
Close second?
Spiders with thick hair.

The Toof...

I used to think that my dentist was the shit, and now realize that they're a bunch of too-greedy, too-busy assholes.
They treated me really nice in the beginning, but now they just suck.
So, when I go today, if they piss me off in anyway...somebody's gettin' kicked in the teeth.

To The Ladies...

Your perfume should not smell like food. Like vanilla, watermelon, pizza, etc.

Thank you.

DVD Extras...

So, if you haven't already read - I broke my ankle on March 1st after a drunken argument with my girlfriend in her car on the way home from a night of social stuff. It started after she said a comment about the girl who gave us our food at Del Taco. I thought that what she said about the girl who worked at the drive-thru window was racist and insensitive. She thought that I was going to press the point too far and then not back down and then threaten to get out of the car like I have in the past. I told her that I would never jump out of a car. That would be stupid. Especially in our driveway, especially when I could've waited five seconds longer, especially after knowing how far I've pushed the karmic circle of my bones. Especially after spending the majority of my life doing impulsive, half-brained stunts and lucky to be alive after them. She thought that I would take my body's uncanny ninja agility for granted, and that someday it'd all catch up with me. I'm kidding. The only thing that she was thinking was that I was an asshole.

So, after I jumped out, and after I kicked her car with the already-hurting-ankle, I zombie-shuffled to the front door. Then I hopped to the fridge. Then I went in the backyard and smoked. Then I realized that I couldn't walk. I felt really lonely, but that's nothing new.

My ankle tried talking to me as she got in her pajamas and yelled at me:

- Kevynn, did you remember to pay the cable bill?

- Dude, Ankle...what the hell? I'm hurting really bad. You're totally swelling and you're asking me about bills?

- Fuck yeah, Bubba. You suck at paying the bills on time. What's up with your memory anyway?

- Stop it. You're being a dick.

- Yeah, whatever. At least I don't have a broken me.

She went to bed. I stayed up. Probably writing on this goddamn thing. Search my archives. I probably tried to be really clever as my ankle swelled up like yo' mamma's booty. It was hurting really, really bad by that time, but I tried to sleep it off, thinking that it'd go away like the majority of my ills usually do. I don't even get sick. I should, but I don't. That's why Karma's such a bitch when it slaps me back.

I only slept for an hour total. After making up with the girlfriend; I still refused to go to the emergency room. I wasn't down for more financial shit. Last time I went to an emergency room after that fight with the three Mexican gang bangin' fucknuts, I got stuck with a bill more than I could afford. They didn't light me on fire or anything; I just got socked in the eye. But, I was being cautious. Fuck caution - it's too expensive, and to think that I missed a Mike Ness interview because of a bunch of wannabe O.C. gangstas. Hee hee. Fuckin' dorks.

But I went eventually. The pain was pretty bad. I actually took a Pamprin or something like that, because we didn't have any Aspirin or hard drugs in the house. All that that it did was ease the pain of my menstrual cramps. I hate taking pills. I hate all of em'. Never really take em', but if you would've given me a poo pill that night, I would've taken it. Feces be damned.

In the E.R., there was no George Clooney. Too bad, cuz' I would've quizzed him on his early days on the Facts Of Life and asked him about the making of From Dusk Til' Dawn. I was bored, tired, and in pain. They put me in a wheelchair, which I thought was funny because I have one at home that I bought about a year ago for fun. I'm quite good at doing wheelies and spinning around in circles. I'm tempted to join the Wheelchair Basketball Association Of America, but they'd probably get mad at me in the men’s restroom after seeing me stand up to pee.

UPDATE - *My girlfriend is getting up for work and I'm still up writing. Girls, don't fall in love with an insomniac if you want somebody by your side in bed. But, they're good night time watchdogs. So lick it.*

Anyway, my ankle was broken. That meant two months off of work. That would usually seem like a blessing to me, but what I didn't know was that would mean no bars, no fun, more stress, and more relationship stress. You would think that I would have a lot of time to write on my screenplays, to finish a book or something, or to make this site actually look good. NO. No way. What little I knew. It's like getting days off of school when you have the flu. Yeah, you get a lot of sleep and you have time off, but you can't function normally. In my case, I couldn't walk or sleep normally. Going to the bathroom or the fridge was a big deal. I became an unwilling participant in the T.V. world, and now, I know HBO's programming like nobody's biznatch.

Two months off of work...sucks. I never really realized how much I took for granted. I'm one of those every day shoppers. I'm an after-work shopper. I get my own little treats, things for dinner, and usually end up with a bunch of plastic sacks that languish in our "plastic sack" drawer. There's no more of that. I've learned to count pennies. To cash in forgotten scratch-off lottery tickets, to hold gimp-drives, and to sleep. I sleep a lot now. But it's all WAR sleep, so it's not as fun as my old Empire Strikes Back dreams.

- Where do you think you're going Captain Solo?

- Apparently nowhere, Greedo, because unless Chewbacca feels like carrying me all over the place, I aint goin' nowhere, bitch.

The first week, now, seemed to go by in a blur because I was in pain and didn't move much. My girlfriend felt guilty and spent a lot of time on pillow-for-the-elevation-of-my-swollen-foot duty. I took a small amount of the Vicodin that they gave me, but started to use those only sparingly because I hated the feeling that they gave me and thought that I could probably make a tidy, much-needed, profit from my initial hospital investment. But combine that with my girlfriend's affinity for all things in pill form, and that with the occasional swiping from my bastard friends, and I'm only down to two lonely pills to sell to y'all. And even then, I might need them for my next bout of "Stunt Arguing".

Now time is moving at a drunken snail's pace. Which is a little bit faster than the normal rate, but still really fucking slow. I've been to the "ankle specialist" two times already, but he's a shifty-eyed, Puerto Rican with a five iron in his hand...and I don't trust him. Actually the real doctor that I have tells me that I should be back to my normal, ambulatory goodness in another three weeks, but they can stuff all of that horse pucky up their shoddy arses, cuz....

I can walk!!!

Yes, true believers, It's a miracle. Kevynn Malone can walk. Sort of. It's more like a slow, senior citizen-like shuffle. But it's a start. Don't think that I'm down to start "Power Walk Racing" with the rest of the silver folk here in Orange County, but I could give them a run for their money in a bit. The fucking, all-knowing bastards.

So it's 6:50 in the a.m., I haven't slept and don't feel an ounce of guilt because of it. I'm not on drugs, but I am running low on cigarettes. My girlfriend is getting ready for school. She's not gonna be late, the junior high doesn't start until 8, so don't worry.

I'm still not in the clear. My next appointment is in a couple of weeks. I'm broke. Really broke. After this last cigarette, I'm gonna shuffle on down to the grocery store and knock some fucking yuppie over the head with my crutch. Notice I said "crutch" and not "crutches". I'll take his wallet, but leave all of the Viagra. I may be a bastard, but at least I'm not a fucking bastard.

I can walk. Sorta. Yeah!..........

Go, go, go, go
Go, go, go shawty
It's your walkday
We gon' party like it's yo walkday
We gon' sip Bacardi like it's your gimpday
And you know we don't give a fuck
It's not your pimpday!

You can find me in the club, bottle full of crutch
Look mami I got the X if you into taking drugs
I'm into having arguing, I ain't into making love
So come give me a hug if you into to getting rubbed

When I pull out up front, you see the Benz in the driveway
When I roll 20 deep, it's 20 knives in the ankle
Niggas heard I fuck with Dre, now they wanna show me love
When you sell like Eminem, and the hoes they wanna fuck
But homie ain't nothing change hold down, G's up
I see Xzibit in the Cutt that nigga roll that ankle up
If you watch how I move you'll mistake me for a playa or gimp
Been hit wit a few shells but I do walk wit a limp
In the hood then the ladies saying "Kevynn you hot"
They like me, I want them to love me like they love 'Ty from Trading Spaces'
But holla in New York them niggas'll tell ya im lrish
And the plan is to put the rap game in an Andre The Giant choke hold
I'm feelin' focused man, my money on my mind
I got a mill out the deal and I'm still fucking broke

What Will Happen To Saddam Hussein's Pets...

I've done absolutely nothing today. I got up late and saw my girlfriend sitting in my wheelchair that I bought for fun about a year ago. Little did I know that I would end up using it for real. I was sleepy and asked my girlfriend why she wasn't at school. She was on top of a pile of blankets too. Why? I don't know. Maybe cuz' she's so little and wanted to feel all tall like me. She told me that she didn't have classes because it was Sunday and that she now had to go into work an hour earlier because of the stupid time change. The she went back to watching Trading Spaces.

I think that this was too much information for my sleepy head, I tried to ask her something, but my head was muddled and my throat wasn't working, so all that came out was kitty sounds. Mewww.

So this cat went back to sleep and dreamed that somebody put a Saddam Hussein doll in my barbecue and almost got caught, but I covered for him and saved his Iraqi ass.