CSI Why?...

I'm not one to rag on television. It's like your sexual preference - it's a personal choice. But, the CSI crap? C'mon. How many are there? CSI. CSI Miami. CSI Brookylnn. CSI Gotham City. CSI Playboy Mansion. CSI Marilyn Mansion. CSI Pee Wee's Playhouse. CSI Green Acres. CSI Mayberry. CSI The O.C.

And are we sure that we should have a show on that teaches everybody what people did wrong when they commited murders? Is this like, a primer for people who don't want to fuck up killing somebody and get caught?

Actually, forget I said all of this, I may need to tuck this away for future reference...

Found On Boz's Site, Who Found It On Divine Trash's...


Masturbation Personality: George Michael


What's Your Masturbation Personality?
brought to you by Masturbation Techniques

Fighting The Good Fight...

Many thanks to Prose of Prosemarket for the ultimate props.

Pretty damn cool.

Thank you.

Are You Mad At Me?

Because this is all I'm going to write? Because you're at work, or rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and expecting a masterpiece, or at least a kick-you-in-the crotch-post, and all you get is this? Are you mad at me, because after planning on telling you about The People On The Bus Story Part Two - about how my first interaction with one of the first people that I met on that trip went, all that I ended up doing tonight was kicking back with the neighbors over beers, and then the cops came because, ever since my friend Tom moved in with my friend Al next door - the neighbors hate them. Noise. So the coppers came, Mugsy. And then by the time I came back to my house, it was already getting late, and all I care about now is playing some Star Wars Galaxies and then trying to get some sleep. I even sound like Yoda now, yes?

Don't be mad.
Sometimes it's hard.
Sometimes it's easy.
If I really wanted to, I could, I guess.
But I'm not like I was before.
I had a hole in my heart.
A vacancy in my soul.
It was easier to fill up space.
Now the process is slower.
More laborious.
But, I think, a richer and more rewarding experience in the long run.
Quality.
Versus.
Quantity.
More of a process of sifting through all of the important details,
Than the expungence that ruled my life before.
Writing shouldn't be ruled by guilt.
Writing wants you to fuck it.
Writing doesn't want to be wined and dined.
Writing doesn't want you to hold it's hand.
Writing comes.
Then it's done with you.
Leaving you to wipe up after it.
Put your pants back on,
And get the fuck out, it says...

Sure, I'll call you...

134 Sexy, Simple Hair & Makeup Secrets...

I've reached the ultimate pinnacle of geekdom.
I've sneezed and sprained my neck.
I can't look to the left or right anymore.
What is this crap all about?
When did I get so "make-sure-grandpa-doesn't-fall-down-the-stairs?"

Dagnabbit.

Ouch.

I've Been Spotted...

Somebody from the virtual world actually saw me. Yes, I stripped off my rags and let a representative of the real world actually see what was underneath my Joseph Merrick mask. I hung out with The Hard Artist and MY New Best Friend. They both met each other through me, in a way. Hard and I go way back, and met My New Best Friend through Fat Free Milk. Kinda. We had a couple of drinks at the casa, then had dinner at the plaza, then met Mike Piaza. No, we didn't meet Mike Piaza. I couldn't care less unless he was giving me money or something, or the clap. But we had dinner, then sang some karoake. Hard and I sang two songs together. Love Me by Elvis, and Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. We kick ass. Sorry to disappoint you, but we do. We should sing on cruise ships. Seriously.

How nice it was to meet My New Best Friend, and how nice and weird was it to actually meet somebody who only knew me through my writing on this site? She didn't run away screaming from me. That's a good sign, I guess. Apparently she has a high tolerance for retarded circus freaks. I think that I could see her tripping out for a bit in the beginning, but that soon died down minutes later. Then she realized that I'm just like all of the people that you see downtown. Except that I smell a little better, dress a little better, speak just as much schitzophrenic nonsense, and sleep in a cardboard box. God, that made no sense. See, that's what she got when she met me. Goobledygook. GoobledyASIAN. I bet that she was disappointed that I didn't look at all like the Charlie Chan, Ghenghis Khan, or Irish bastard that I make myself out to be.

I had a lot of fun. Is this what it's like to hang out with internet people? Are all of you actually real people? With hands and feet and hair and with no visible flesh wounds? What? I don't know. And no, we didn't take any pictures because they forgot the camera, and maybe that's good, because I want to sell my horrible portrait along with some personal knick knacks on eBay as soon as I sign up on it. I want to make a whole dollar. Free money from the curious. I want to start selling things off from around my house and hype up the objects on Fat Free Milk. Everybody likes empty beer bottles, right?

Anyway, it was nice. But I don't plan on meeting anybody from The Internet anytime soon, because I know all of you are a bunch of sick perverts...

There Were Monsters On That Ship, And Truly...We Were Them...

Tige Flandre Tige prie. Il prie en tout début de matinée et la dernière chose avant lit. Il prie pour que Dieu observe au-dessus de lui et de son petit frère, Todd. Il prie pour le succès des affaires de son père. Il prie également pour tous les petits garçons et filles vilains, comme son Bart voisin Simpson, il est trop mauvaise prier que pour elles-mêmes. Hormis la prière, Tige a plaisir à jouer wholesomely avec son frère et à manger un bon nombre de nachos, le Flandre-modèle ("qui est des concombres avec le fromage blanc!"). Son un regret est qu'il ne peut pas prier à l'école.

Why? I Don't Know...

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Prowling across the tundra, brandishing a bladed baseball bat, cometh Kevynn Malone! And he gives a vengeful howl: "I'm going to clobber you into a new dimension of pain!!!"

Find out! Enter username: Are you a girl, or a guy ?

created by beatings : powered by monkeys

I Never Write About Searches I've Found That Brought People To Fat Free Milk...

But this is seriously
one of the best things
that I've ever seen
and just about sums up
the majority of my writing, I think.

The Next Post Is Better...
I hit every single yellow light on my way home from work today. Hitting all greens is cool and all, but nothing like cruising through all of the yellows. How exciting. It sends thrilling little shivers down my pants just thinking about it.

The People On The Bus part one...

Me.

I was eighteen. That was a long time ago, I think. Maybe not that long. 365 days pass, and then we allocate another point to the internal and external atrophy system. I was on a bus. The rest of my high school class that I recently graduated with was slinging down tequila shots in Mexican resorts while I was trying to not take poops on Greyhound busses. My graduation present was getting kicked out of my house. My father and I had actually been getting along pretty well for the last couple of weeks. For us, at least. I was eating some chicken or something when he came out of his dark room into the dark living room and then walked into the dark kitchen. He plopped down an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a card with his signature scrawled on it, along with a check for three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars? Wow! He didn't get me anything for graduation, not that I expected anything, and for birthdays, I might get twenty-five or fifty bucks if I was lucky. I expressed my gratitude, thinking that maybe this was a combo-graduation-birthday-present-thingy. He told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked when was I moving? I had twenty-four hours to leave. Oh. He walked back into his dark room, and I sat in the dark kitchen, not really feeling particularly hungry anymore. I threw the rest away and went into my room. Looking over a lifetime's-worth of accumulative teenage crap. Where the hell was I supposed to go? What the hell was I going to do? Did I really have to leave?

I did. By noon the next day, I'd thrown away mountains of stuff that really didn't seem as important to me as they did the day before when I had a place to keep it, and the rest that I deemed essential enough to keep, got stored in a friend's parent's attic. I floated around in the next couple of weeks at a couple of buddy's houses. Tried to stay out of everybody's hair. I didn't try to figure out what to do, because I had absolutely nothing to do. Where the hell would I go? I'd always told my father that I was going to get the hell out as soon as I possibly could, but never really thought about what that meant. It meant money. A place to stay. A steady income. I ended up homeless and would sleep in parks or stay up at the only twenty-four hour donut shop in town. I'd smoke, write, and wait until dawn. Wander around maybe, until a buddy got home.

After a couple months of this crap, I finally decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I was losing sanity points. I bought a round trip ticket that was good for one year from Montclair, California to New York City. This was great because this meant that even though I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I could stay in one place for a short time if it suited me, go back to a bus station and get a new series of tickets printed out, and everything would be cool. My father, of all people, dropped me off. He was really the only one who could take me. He seemed sad, and this perplexed me. If he was so sad, why didn't he just let me stay for a few months, stop being the ass that he was, I would stop being the ass that I was - and then I'd get out as soon as I could when I was better prepared. I waved to him as the bus pulled away. He had his hands in his pocket and looked very old. I didn't know what feeling old was, yet. I just felt scared. Confused. Unreal. Like a character in a movie or some cardboard cut out in a poorly written story. We were heading to Arizona, it would take all night, so I tried to make myself comfortable and quiet all of the voices in my head. I turned to my left and smiled timidly at the man next to me. We eventually introduced ourselves…

The Cupboard Under The Stairs...

I have a lot of things to write about,
but considering that I'm having to use toothpicks to keep my eyes open -
I'll just have you write a post in the comments section today instead.
Profanity and sexual themes are encouraged.

Thank you.

Bruce Campbell...

I guess I'm going to write this before I smoke a cigarette. Yes, I do smoke the vile things, and I always have, probably more than your mom and her cancer too, so shut it. Okay. Anyway. It was Tony's birthday tonight. I guess that it's officially tomorrow, but we celebrated it tonight and it was pretty lame. Tomorrow night, when it is actually his birtday, I'll be behind the bar serving his fucking rockstar arse. Speaking of rockstar arse's, I went to The Key Club down in Hollywood last night to see a friend's band play at a fashion show. Stuff Magazine and Vanity Fair were supposed to be there, but I didn't see shite. All I was doing was buying $5.50 Bud Lights. I forgot all about Hollywood beers. Oops. Expensive. Then on the way back home I peed in the back of a movie theatre and found a bunch of vinyl movie posters. Kill Bill. The new George Clooney and Catherine Zeta Jones, Jack Black, or Vin Diesel movie anyone? So, Ebay, c'mon...buy the stuff of me. My girlfriend called me from Bourbon Street in New Orleans tonight. After all of tonight, I can't even compare with all of the fun she had. Tony got complimentad on his uncanny agilty when it came to his puking abilties. Good man, that Tony. Fortunatley I'm never quite in the situation in which I need to be complimented on that. Unfortunately, when I am in that rare type of situation? There's nothing cool about it.

This is not at all how this post was supposed to be...

But moneys isn't floating down from the sky like volcano ash...

So it's okay if the masterpieces aren't either tonight...right?

Chilly Willy...

Yes, I am typing naked.
Now, where'd my hat go?

Karate Chops...

Are beautiful. Anyway, I saw Elvis the other night. At a bar in Garden Grove. Right when I arrived, he walked into the kitchen. He was hungry, I guess. I wasn't. I don't feed much. My tribe is prosperous. We're resourceful. We pluck fruit from the trees. Shoot an arrow. Climb a mountain. We're fed. Spoiled and loving it. Hooting. Panting. Fucking. No need for fighting. Everythings good in the monkey hood. The drivers side window of my car doesn't go up anymore. Good for me.

Only Because I let The Night Slip Through My Fingers Like Mustard...

I can't write about the three things that I wanted to tonight. I lagged, and now it's too late. But I will tell you that, before bed tonight, I whipped up a twenty second sandwich masterpiece involving Peperonni, Salami, Cheddar, Mayonnaise, and pickles, yo. Perfection. Darth Vader never needed Luke to rule the universe. All he needed was one of my sandwiches.

Don Rickles...

A friend of mine is dating a girl who reads my site. They are both normal and happy. Really. Yowzers, huh? She asked him what I looked like. My friend asked her what she thought I looked like. She said, based on the writing on my website, that she thought that I was old, bald, and fat. What the hell? I mean...she really hit the nail on the head, didn't she? I am happy for my friend, and happy that he's dating a psychic.

Show Of Hands, Kidney-Gardners...

And what did you do last night, anyway?
All that I'll tell you is that somebody
stole my beers when the hour started getting late.
Isn't that a kick in the liver?
I did beat the friggin' pants off of my friends tonight in poker,
and that's all that matters, in the long run because my luck has been lacking, as of late.
I had the worst luck when it came to everything else tonight.
I had some pleasant conversations tonight.
That was it.

Laborius day?

Yes.

Pleasant?

Sort of.

What did you do yesterday, Bubba?

My friend Mark, Snuck Into My Site And Posted On It. This Is After Helping Him And Twenty Other Idiot Friends At The Bar Tonight. Actually, He Didn't Even Pay For His Coke, Either. Yeah, He Drank A Coke. I'm Glad That He Has Nothing Better To Do Except Write On My Site At 1 In The Morning When I'm Still At Work. Why Am I Smiling? Because This Means That I Don't Have To Write Anything Tonight. This Is What The Little Fucker Wrote...

This is not Kevynn. This is Mark. I did not ask Kevynn if I could post on his site. I am bascially writing without permission. I am firm believer in getting permission to do things and here I go ruining my own philosophy. I just wanted to be a part of something, so write crazy things on the "comments" thing and I'll write even crazier things in response. For example, you might say, "Who's this Mark guy? Pchaw, he's retarded! I hate him sooo much. Will he just go away and never come back. Oooh, I hate him!!!" And I will respond, "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" See, I am great and full of fun little surprises like that. Can you just imagine what I'm like at home. That's right! I suck at home. I'm usually ignored when I talk and told to shut up when I am not ignored. Kind of a Catch 22 if you don't know how to use the phrase "Catch 22." Has anyone seen Bruce Almighty? If you haven't seen it, go see it at your local second-run movie house. When you buy the ticket, say, "Alllllmighty then!!!!" The tickettaker should be impressed that you have seen a previous Jim Carey movie and know how to tie things together like that. I did it and was ignored. I'm all out of stuff to say. Seriously, I'm all out of time. You guys have been...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..z..z.z...............z.....................z

Madonna Kissing Britney Spears...

TheBookoftheDeadAfterallthedeedsaredone
AnddownGoesthesunItsonlythendoIrealize
ThatallunfinishedbusinessCreatedandranted
aboutduringThehotand messydayIsNothingmore
thanthat……Justbusiness…MyheartProblemsneardreams
deathsandpremonitionsnightlikethosealwaysrememberitmay
bethedayslikethesethatweforgetFORGETTINGTHEHALFFULLCUPOF
LIFEASOPPOSEDTOTHEEVAPORATINGEMPTYDAYSHERETODAYTALKINGTO
APARTMENTFRIENDSFROMWINDOWSVISITORSCOMPUTERCONVERSATIONS
WITHFRIENDSYOUWORKWITHCOMINGHOMETOAFRIENDALREADYINYOUR APT.
BEFOREYOUWEREEVENTHEREHERMOTHERANDCHILDRENPLAYINGWITHYOURSIX
SMALLKITTIESFRIENDSCOMINGANDGOINGCARSJOKESANDCONVERSATIONSABOUT
JCPENNYTWENTYDOLLARFAMI PHOTOALBUMSWITHEVERYBODYWHOLIVESHEREALLTENOFUS

( I erased the majority of this post. Sorry. Thanks to those who commented. That was really nice of you. I don't know, I don't really care about putting super-duper personal stuff on here. It doesn't bug me. I'll write whatever I want, but it kept on nagging at me in the back of my mind - so there. Yup. )

Five Dollar Boom Boom...

My mom's from Vietnam. Yup, I'm first-generation-born-somewhere-other-than-that-place-guy. My older brother was born there too. Why don't we have the obligatory X-Men-Cyclops eyes? Don't know. Don't care. I always look tired anyways, so it doesn't make much of a difference in the long run. I had a bad mother. She's nice and all, but sucks in a lot of departments when it comes down to the final inventory. No big deal. No bad feelings. No skin off of the Irish-Vietnamese back. Tonight at the bar, I was engaging in some type of conversation that I thought was important, when I heard my name being called...There was a small, smiling lady selling something. With my bad vision, I thought that it was roses. But it wasn't. She was lugging around a wooden display case full of bracelets. That was probably why the lady was brought to my attention. I'm one of the only guys left with a girlfriend. So everybody was directing the lady towards me. Nobody wanted anything. The bracelets were okay. Nothing special. What was special was that I bought one. That she was smiling, even though that she had to try to sell cheap trinkets of homemade beauty to a bunch or worthless kids. What was special was that she always had a smile on her face. What was special was that I could hear people making racist comments behind her back, even though two of them were black. What was special was that she danced to the live band that was playing as she left the bar. The only money that she had was what I gave her. She danced away with a smile on her face as people made fun of her. These are the same people who probably made fun of my mother years ago when she came to this country. The only reason that she was here, and the only reason that I exist is because she met a handsome white guy. A guy that gave up the job that he loved to shack up and do the nasty with a beautiful girl. Nothing mattered. All that my father wanted was what was best for the both of them. They asked why I bought the cheap bracelet. I half-joked that I was watching out for my own. I told them that that was my mother who just left. They said, why, because she was Vietnamese?

I said no...because she was a person, you fucking idiots.

Ya' Flea Bittin' Varmit!...

Watching Bugs Bunny cartoons.
Wondering why Yosemite Sam was always such a dick.
Bugs Bunny could drive you nuts, though.
He's funny and all, but an ultimate smart ass.
The smug, buck-toothed bastard.

In a real street fight, Daffy'd kick his fluffy ass.

Roller City...

How come I'm not winding down with a movie and eating that pizza in the fridge? Why am I not getting some much-needed sleep after a long, boring night serving drinks to drunks? I've got a big day tomorrow/today involving fixing up cars, tow trucks, money, getting tattoos, more late-night bartending, and Star Wars figure trades. Yeah, you heard me, Bubba. What am I doing?

I don't know, Pa. I don't know why I have trouble sleeping. I don't know why I can't graze like the rest of the herd. Life is strange. Always has been. Getting older, my movie audience is getting younger, though. It's kind of...creepy. Sometimes I feel like I'm still at a roller skating birthday party, with all of the flashing, fucked-up lights going around and around, as I, myself, go round and around, making myself feel even dizzier. The skates on my feet are metal, heavy, and clumsy. I lost one of them somewhere, and I have to keep one of my legs up very high, and sway from side to side, so that I don't fall. It's kind of tiring. I don't even know how I got invited, anyway. Nobody's paying attention to me. I always feel like I'm tagging along, and when everybody else stops to take a break, and maybe get something to eat - I'm too poor to buy anything.

When I slow skate with the girls, they don't look at me. I feel that they secretly wanted to be with someone else. Before the last note of the song, they're already gone, rolling away on brand new, un-rented pink and purple skates. Before I know it, the DJ's already called the last dance, and it's all over. I end up waiting alone in a dirty parking lot for my father. Everybody else piles into mini vans piloted by young-looking mothers. Sometimes there are five or six kids leaving together in the same car. Nobody asks me where I'm going. Finally, about an hour later, my angry father pulls up. I'm the last kid in the parking lot. My feet hurt on the ride back home. My father doesn't ask me how it was. He doesn't ask if I had fun. He doesn't ask anything. He just guns his creaking van back to our oil-stained driveway. He's already in the house by the time I get out of the car. I walk past my older brothers room. He slams the door. I'm back in my room. There's nothing much in there. No posters on the walls to look at. One shelf for toys. Two windows. The night. And silence...

I Hear Pat Benetar...

It's getting harder and harder to finish books.
It's getting harder to write important stuff.
Maybe I've been reading and writing crap, urm?

This Is What I Sang All Night...

We Like The Moon.