I don't Care...

But besides a documentary about Chimpanzees using twigs as termite-fishing tools,
I don't know what could be better than a Victoria's Secret fashion show on t.v. right now.

Well, maybe a Victoria's Secret Porno on t.v.

Well, maybe a Victoria's Secret Porno/Radiohead concert/Thundercats/Dean Martin/Twilight Zone marathon....

Geek. Yes.

I went to the library before paying the phone bill
and found a Poet In Exile and Everything's Eventual. Cool.
Rented 2001 A Space Odyssey and What Dreams May Come.
Did you know that they have DVD's at my library? Spoiled, huh?
God, I used to spend so much time there. I still live close, I used to live real close.
I could've probably run there in a minute and a half. You can never really know a library
unless you have the chance to visit one at least once a week. I used to go there so much that
a couple of the younger clerks that worked there used to give me my movies for free and erase my library fines.
There were a couple of girls that worked there that I thought were cute.
I picked up Anne Of Green Gables once.
Loved it. Gay, I know. So, one day I was looking in the childrens literature section to search for the next book-
and up came hot-library-clerk no. 2, strolling her little cart around right by me.
So I left real quick and wound up pretending to be interested in Danielle Steele novels.
Which is worse?
I don't know.

Oh, this is for Saara.

She's my number one fan, y' know. That's why everybody should always write me back in the comments sections.

Cuz' you get presents from me, bitch.

Sorry...

I try not to do these quiz things,
but every once in awhile there's one that piques my interest...



how would you commit suicide?

Sorry.
Maybe THIS will cheer you up...

Why You Should Give Me A Million Dollars....

I'm psychic.

I get a call from my girlfriend's manager from work.
I joked, "What'd-she do, fall down the stairs and hit her head?"
She sprained her elbow falling down the stairs. Either I'm psychic or I know that she's clumsy.
In my last post, I was going to title it "A Pizza Without Pepperoni Is Just A Cheese Pizza"
but named it "Rooney Eats It" instead. Next day, I go to Sarah's site and see her post.
It confused me. I thought maybe she read mine and it inspired her to write about
Ferris Bueller's Day Off or something but I didn't get what everyone else was commenting about.
Rooney got in trouble. Pee-Wee too! It's Jambi's fault-the green-headed bastard.

So, I'm psychic.
So, give me money.
So...look at THIS.
So, You'll like it, punk.

See? I knew you'd like it.

Hmmmm....wait...prediction...coming...You Suck!



Thank you.

Rooney Eats It...

See? I'm not even a good vegetarian. I tried and only lasted for about 14 hours.
Most of those passed while I was asleep. I did good at work until it was time to go home today.
I just ordered some food to take home. Some sauteed artichoke hearts and a chicken breast.
Yeah, I know it sounds gay, but it's good-so suck it! Anyway, I was talking to someone
when I realized that I was just eating chicken. All of the cooks started to laugh at me because
they thought that it was too hot for me and I burned my mouth. Then they strated to laugh
harder when they found out that I forgot not to eat meat. I knew it would happen. See?

I love meat. Love animals. Love the taste of them too.
Hate how some are treated to get to my plate.
I respect vegetarianism and all, it'd be kind of hard
in this mass media/consumer-driven society
to be a full-fledged vegan-but more power to those who try.
I mean the one's that really try.

You want to know how to rule the world?
Bottle up the smell of a steak on the barbecue.
That's the most powerful smell in the world.
I've seen people weep when the smoke hits their nostrils.
My veggie friends get a glazed look to their eyes at get-togethers,
and it's not because of the PCP and Crack we smoke while we're at them.
I turn into a dumb neanderthal.
Well...more neanderthalic, I should say when steak's around.

I'm not going to try again. I give up. I'll just eat less of it. Stupid PETA. Thanks for nuthin'.

I will eat human flesh though if given the opportunity...

dipped in ranch dressing.

Naps Are Evil...

I didn't even mean to take one last night but after I ate I started to nod off.
I stayed up late the night before trying to figure out how to add
those permanent link thingys on the left side of this site.
I woke up groggy and then tried to go to bed at 2 a.m.
I tried to watch cartoons until the sleep hit me. It never did.
I had to eventually turn it off and started to fall asleep when the gardners came at 6 a.m.
I swear they know I'm in my bedroom. I could even hear the air repeatedly whooshing in the cracks of the window seal.
They were yelling to each other and whooshing the window forever. They know I'm an insomniac, I swear.
What'd I ever do to them? Do they know that my father used to work for Border Patrol, is that it?

I'll try to get some sleep tonight. Maybe I'll call somebody on the phone. That always does it for me...

KICK...

Geez, INXS is on the radio...
Reminds me of spiked punch,
Wavy, crimped hair and licorice games.

Oh yeah, and Micheal Hutchence's corpse.

To start your day off...

I'll give you this...

You're welcome...

Remember me during Christmas time, you bastards.

Send money or action figures...

I Scream, I Scream...

I tend to sit around and not do anything.
I don't know where this came from.
I used to be productive, I swear.
I am lazy now, I guess.
I've always been a hyper active kid.
I used to write alot. Now I do sporadically at best.
I never get anything down that's important or that
I need to professionally.
I've been telling myself that I need to just do it.
I need to ignore evrybody and everything like
I used to and just become the insane madman that
I used to be. Yeah, your health and all relationships suffer but
I never used to let it affect me when
I was done, so why should
I let it get in the way now?
I think that as
I'm watching time do it's job, life is becoming more of a job to me.
I don't feel the fiery burn in the scribbling fingers.
I don't feel the need to get it all down anymore...because
I used to try. All the time. And
I liked it, yes. But
I've either said it before or
I will put it down later...and if
I don't?...

I don't care...

I'm happy.

I'll write later...

I need to pee...

Darth Masturbator

Scared me there for a minute. This thing wasn't working.
See, Isn't that cool when I do this? Then I can sound like William Shatner.
There's something on the wing!
First I thought HACKER, cuz' I'm a paranoid BeeYATCH,
then I thought that Blogger shut me off cuz' they know I suck,
then I thought that I was a big ol' wuss for even feeling the moment of panic that I did.

I was going to write about so many things-
but this is all you're going to get because my girlfriend,
the Nazi of my heart that she is-was on the computer forever.
Yeah, yeah...just like me, I know.
She was writing some ungodly college paper
on lesbian firefighter vampires or something like that.
I cooked dinner, read both of the newspapers, almost finished Roots,
and watched a movie on cable that I'm too embarrased to admit to.
I feel weird. Spock? Somethings...wrong.

I don't want to work tomorrow. Oh. Did Darth Vader Masturbate alot,
or was he always too busy to?I think one of his Imperial Officers caught him in Empire Strikes Back.
You know, when he was sitting cross-legged in his "Meditation Chamber".

Forget the Torture Chamber-
I want my own Masturb-I mean,
Meditation Chamber...
Yeah to meditate in and to heal up all of my wounds
that that damn Moulin Jedi inflicted on me in the climax of Episode 3.
A private sanctuary so that I can focus on domination of the galaxy
and not Natalie-Portman-Princess-Gal. You know what,
If I was one of those Imperial Officers who walked in on or
interrupted Darth Vader while he was masturbating-
I would come back later and steal his spent sperm
and sell it on the intergalactic market.

Gross.

Jedi-Self-Love.

Now I know why Darth always wore gloves.

Feel The Force Luke...indeed.

Thank you and good morning.

Wouldn't It Be Cool...

To have your own torture chamber?

To write in, of course.

This post is rated...AAARRRRR!!!

there's a man right now living in a lighthouse and he's jealous of me.
jealous of what i'm doing and what i'm about to do tonight.
he may be thinking the same things that i am,
about how i could be jealous of someone in his position.
but it doesn't make it any better for him because I can walk outside.
WALK and WALK and WALK.
going until the hunger hits me.
i can talk and TALK and TALK and TALK and eventually someone will be listening.

the crash of waves can sometimes be a horrible friend.
just ask pirates.
theres booty in the water,
but if you dont grab it-and quick!
then it all SINKS..…..

My Name Is? My Name Is?

Slim Shady.

I will see this movie.

Even if he talks shit on Moby.
Even if he is or was in D12.
Even if he's from Detroit.
Even if Johnny Cash deserves a movie more.
Even if Thom Yorke deserves a movie more.
Even if Longfellow did too.

Even if he's black.

Papa Boner...

God, I can't wait to be old. Serious.
I need to start planning my retirement fund.
It'll be great. I plan on living til' a hundred and eleven.
That sounds good, doesn't it? 111 years?
I want senior citizens to mutter to themselves, " Damn look at that guy! He's friggin' old!
I want to make up stories about myself and to mess with my children's heads.
You know how when you were young, you had no concept of history
and would ask your parents what it was like to live during the great depression
even if they were in their later thirties?
Or to ask them where they were when Lincoln died? I want to tell my children and grandchildren that I helped write The Dead Sea Scrolls,
but the part with "written by Kevynn Malone" got lost. I want to tell them that I created "The Rave". That I smoked Crack before it was "hip".
That I knew the original Betty Crocker and that Aunt Jemima wasn't really that fat. It was a marketing ploy,
she was actually quite the looker and that we once engaged in some heavy-petting after the homecoming dance sophmore year in high school.
I will cackle things out loud in public. I will name all of my body parts and talk to Wal-Mart employees about them like they were real people.
I will have no problem wearing diapers. What was fine for me when I was an infant, should be fine for me as the senior-ist citizen.
Staring at the ceiling for hours on end and breast-feeding. What? Did you think I meant playing with Fisher Price toys and eating baby food?
As I get older, my wardrobe will get worse. If I wear anything even remotely fashionable, I will wear an enormous baseball hat ten sizes
too big for me on the following day as penance. I will pretend to fall everyday at various eateries and make people feel guilty
for not telling me to "watch my step!" I want to watch t.v. for twenty-eight hours straight. All local news coverage. I want to kick ass, though.
Whether it's through my cane or a gnarled, old fist meting out punishment-I wanna be able to kick yo' butt.

I am getting old.

Look what I'm writing about...only old folk do that.

Maybe this is getting old too.

Bah!

Carrie White's ass looked cute...covered in pig's blood.

Brian DePalma's Carrie is dated, but good. There was a short-lived musical version of Carrie which I never (unforunately) saw. Carrie 2 The Rage!!! Apparently not the rage. Maybe it should've been set in a rave. Burning glow sticks and pacifiers set to hard core techno? I don't know. And now I just got done watching a new three hour television version that I, at first was unreluctant to watch, but did. Not that bad actually. It was modernized, had some parts from the book that weren't in the original one and had a sexy gym teacher. Funny, cos 2day I was at the video store with Dawne searching for Charles Manson documentaries for her school project. Last one was on Rosanne Barr. No. Rosie Perez. No. Parker Posey. No. Rosie O' Donnell. College, eh? Anyway I was looking through the horror section and noticed how many either classic Stephen King film adaptations there were in there or how many utterly horrible translated works there were. It's reported that S.K.'s quitting writing. That would make me sad. He's one of the best writers around. I don't want to get into it. The arguments. What sucked, blah, blah. Mass production crap. But he's good. I read my first S.K. novel when I was in fourth grade. I've read everything of his except for the Talisman/Blackhouse-which for the life of me, I can't get through. I've tried a million times and I just can't do it. He's allowed to quit though. It's his right. He's in pain. He says all of his ideas have come full-circle. That's okay. But I don't trust him. You can't take the WRITING DEMONS away from that type. He'll try to quit and just won't be able to. If I am like him in any smidgen, if I have one ounce of the sickness that he does. Please God(s), there's no hope for him. He's doomed forever to put combinations of letters and syntax on empty spaces. Good luck. It won't ever happen.

Anyway, this Carrie movie reminded me of high school and if I was cursed and had to repeat high school, I would take the often-ignored-Eliza-Doolittle-type of girl out. Just as long as she didn't mind drinking a couple of Pre-Prom beers in a park somewhere. I actually never went to my senior prom. I went to a girl's senior prom when I was a sophmore, but she ended up getting Bronchial Pneumonia and I surprised her on that night at the hospital with a corsage, Taco Bell and in my tux. I made the nurses cry and they even turned a blind eye when we snuck outside to go smoke a cigarette. Her lungs be damned. I was too busy to go to prom when I was a senior. I told everybody I wasn't going, and then...it was all over. I overslept on a couple of final activities, arrived late at a senior barbecue, lost twenty bucks in the school pool, went to some dumb parties and watched wrestlers spit tabacco juice in dixie cups. My father never had any interest in me or school activities anyway. Just my hair length, earring and my attitude. But out of nowhere he bought me a Grad Night ticket. I wasn't even planning on going. Most of my friends weren't. But I think that my father was afraid of the three a.m. police phone call telling him that his son was dead or in a Tijuana jail cell. So I went. Had nachos in a bowling alley, hung out and played blackjack with the girl that I had a crush on for almost all of high school, won a mini tape recorder in a raffle that I actually got alot of use out of years later. I used it to interview bands for a magazine. I sat through ceremonies. That was it. I played a game of basketball with Joe in front of my house the first day after graduation and then eight days later my father gave me a $300 dollar check on my birthday. I didn't get for graduation (not that I expected to) and thought that this was a combo gift. My father told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked when was I moving? He said Tomorrow. I put down the drumstick that I was eating and watched him walk into his bedroom. I wasn't hungry anymore. I left the next day. One month later I was awakened on a Greyhound bus by an ex-gangster from the Bronx telling me to, "Gett up nigga! We in Pittsburgh! "

Eat your heart out Stephen King.
I've got some horror stories too.
You just have a lot more money than me and are a much better writer.

I suck.

But you aren't listening to "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John right now are you? Thought not.

Pig's blood! Redrum! They're coming to get you Baaarbaraaaaa! Dead By Dawn! Dead By Dawn! Candyman! Candyman! Candym-

Oink! Oink!

Hmmm...Time Is Passing...

Look what I just found. Not the best interview-not the worst though.
Geez, I didn't know what I was doing-give me a break, punk! 1996? Wow.

Warren Fitzgerald=Member of The Vandals=Good Stuff

One of the many reasons why I'm a bad boyfriend...

Girlfriend asleep on couch. Kevynn on computer.
Girlfriend says in sleeptalk, "Where are we going?"
Kevynn gets up, kisses her on forehead,
leans close to her ear and whispers..."HELL".

Decisions, Decisions...

Oh my god, I'm going to go to Dumb-Guy-World
or Hopeless Island or Blogging Idiot Planet or something for this...

I was smoking in the backyard and caught myself deciding
on whether to write a movie review of "Colors" or to write about bald men.

I suck. Serious.

Woke up this morning to:

One friend asleep on the kitchen lounge chair thingy.
Four on the floor.
One on the couch.
And two in the other room.
Two muffins hidden in kitchen drawers.
One in a flower pot.
One on my bedroom window sill.
One in a bedroom cabinet.
One behind the pictures on top of the t.v.
Two in kitchen cabinets.
One under the couch.
And one inside a ceiling lamp.

I also woke up to ONE big headache.

Thank you.

Like Mark said in the comments section of my last post-

I'm having a party. A cray-.......what? a cray?
a Crawfish party? No crazy hat party. Stupid fingers. Dumb typo.
Wow. I'm so wacky. Get a load of this guy, eh? Stand back. He's sooooo funny. Ahhhhh...no.
Yeah, we're all going to stick crustaceans down our pants and everybody at the party
has to guess what you have down there.

Hey what you got there? A lobster?

Naw. I've got Crabs!

Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk.

I'm lame. I need to start drinking.

I just noticed...

That in my last two posts,
I misspelled one word in each.
Well, at least two that I noticed.
I'm not going to bother much with fixing my syntax, punctuation and spelling errors.
Feh! Bizarro Kevynn No Like Stupid Details! At least in this.

Anyway, in my last two posts there were two words that I noticed misspelling.

Post before last?
I wrote Bet. I meant But.
Last post?
I spelled Whole. I meant Hole.

So, ladies and gentlemen...
The last two words that I messed up were

BUT
and
HOLE

BUT(T)HOLE!

hee hee hee!

Thank you for your patience...

All I know is...

That I pushed the elevator button for the third floor and I wound up somewhere in the basement.
I wandered around, thinking to myself that for a City Hall, it looked kind of shitty and do I really need a new job this bad?
Finally, I asked a lady where personnel was and she told me that it was on the third. ( the building is three stories tall. )
She didn't even laugh, say goodbye or anything. She obviously thought I was a dumbass.
Screw her. Nice " Employee Lounge ", by the way.
She probably was the Head Patrol Of Sewage Tracking or something.

I got lost in a three story building and wound up in the basement.
I know, I suck. I'm one of those guys that have absolutely NO sense of direction but I swear this one wasn't my fault.
I pushed the damn button, heard a DING and then stepped outside. I wandered around. That's it. I also met a tall cop in the bathroom. I gave him a smile and he didn't return it. I think that's because I saw him checking himself out in the full-length mirror.

Carving pumpkins tonight. I'm going to lay mine on its side and pretend it's Dawne's fat-ass cat. What I'm really looking forward to is throwing the pumpkin in the backyard in a week or so. No. Maybe I should just chuck it down the street late at night. Then I'd get a more satisfying THUNK sound. Or I could carve a bigger whole on the bottom and then wear it on my head and let Chris punch me. That would be fun.

Happy Halloween, you bastards.

It'll never happen.

I don't think I'm gonna ever grow up. I suffer from Peter Pan Syndrome.
I'm like one of those kids that you see on the daytime talk shows
who have the brain of a five year old bet get old really fast physically.

I just want to be like the other kids...that's me.

I just got home from work and realized that my vintage E.T.
wind up action figure that's still in the package fell off of one of my walls.
Then I started to rearrange all of the others. My girlfriend accepts their presence
and the whole discombobulated state of decay and disarray that is my room,
like a new mother does the poop in her infant's diapers. A neccessary and very messy evil.

1) There's Tetsuo from Akira.
2) The Jesus action figure I mentioned before.
3) A Daredevil action figure that is dressed in his early black and yellow costume instead of the red one.
I read in a toy magazine that it was worth alot of money and found it by chance a couple of months later,
hoping to sell it on Ebay. I hate Daredevil. So, that's still on my wall.
4) A Wolverine figure that I got from someone on my birthday.
5) Ash and Evil Ash from Army Of Darkness.
6) Mr. Pink from Reservoir Dogs.
7) Jek Porkins, the fat X-Wing pilot from Star Wars.
8) Edward Scissorhands.
9) Homer Simpson in his underwear.
10) And a Viet Cong action figure that I got for cheap before WAR got popular again.

This is not including all of my crap that's out of the package.
The 18' Ash Doll in the living room.
All of the Star Wars toys from childhood.
The masks, wierd dolls, Spawn figures, skulls, Elvis crud and Pez dispensers.
I also have a trash bag full of junk that I had to put in the garage
for lack of space or in a desperate attempt of dignity.

See? I'm still a kid. The same little snot-nosed punk who used to fantasize about everything and nothing.
Well, that and being trapped in a dungeoun with naked Amazon women. Trapped?

Still the same kid.
Either that or I'm just a....geek.

Man. What the hell just happened?

This blog-schmog thing is cool and all.
Really. I mean it.

But what the hell just happened?

That was an internet-wierd.
A blog-Gremlin.
An internet-typist's nightmare.

I tried to post a religious quiz and it came with a fucked-up picture and I've been trying to make it work forever and then the thing went all wacky and i thought i ruined it and then i smoked for a bit and thought that this thing wouldn't ever work again and then i was okay with it and then i thought about how i don't write as much as i used to and how this shouldn't be my main concern, then Heather called late like i kneew she would and asked where i was, isaid that Dawne was at a kick-boxing class and that I would wait and im not going to fix any of the punctuation or grammer on this and im going to use AND and i as much as possibleleklelele until im done....which is now. today was a wierd day. eat it. thank you

this is my post....

I'm a horrible pot smoker...

Really.

Not that i'm an innocent or anything, but I've never been that bad.
I have vices.
Yeah, I like beer and cigarettes too much.
Comic books and reading the newspaper.
And I spend too much time on this damn computer.

I grew up with an older brother, so trust me...I've smoked my fair share of pot.
I'm down, yo. I've got my street cred. mutha.
Can you say, twelve years old?
I can't smoke pot.
I hate it.
Fine. Whatever.
I love it for my friends and all.
Everybody in the world, all my friends-everybody on Earth, it seems...likes to smoke pot-and that's cool, more power to ya'.
Whatever you like, just as long as it doesn't hurt me or anyone else.
But it has a shitty effect on me..........................

WORK IN PROGRESS....( there's a JANE GOODALL SPECIAL ON HBO RIGHT NOW>>>>>>>>>)

hold up, punk.....

Damn, I love that Jane Goodall.
Jane, The Dalai Lama, and Stephen Kingare tops in my 'Cool Book'.

Anyway, pot has a shitty effect on me. I'm cool for thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. I laugh, start to scream, or get insane urges like...TUNA.
I may want to open up a can but won't be able to do it. I may try to convince you that you're are a lesbian, whether or not you're a male or female.
I'll throw things at you. I'll raise a ruckus. You'll laugh...and then I'll be asleep. I can point out to you where I'll drop off.
See? Fun for you, but right when your stinky-ass pipe hits my lips-and the smell that reminds me of every horrible roommate ( Floyd ) that I've ever had, wafts into my lungs-
I remember why I don't smoke pot. It's not me. After twelve yrs. old, all of the times that I continued to try it-thinking that I would, maybe, get a different reaction....nothing. I always regret it. I hate the loss of self-control. The loss of ME. No matter the good and bad...I like my insides.
My Kevynn thoughts. There's some crud in there-but I don't know anything else and I like it.

I dealt pot for a bit.
I was a drug dealer.
Yes, I was. Really.
I did it because I had friends that sold it and they always bugged me to. Peer pressure.
I was perfect, they said. I didn't smoke it-so why didn't I sell it?
So finally, I said I would for a friend of mine that lived up in L.A. Let's call him ROB. ( Sorry, ROB. )

I had some conditions, though...

He would have to teach me the measurement thing, because I've never understood it.
All that I know is that JOEL once lost an eighth of pot from down his pants at a DANZIG concert.
I suck at all of that stuff. C'mon, I grew up with measurement tables from 'Pee-Chee' folders!
Barrels, hogsheads, bushels? What? Liters, grams, schwammy-whams, whatever....

I would never sell too much.

AND I would never have to leave my house.
None of this pager/secret-code-meet-you-in-the-bushes-at-Bradford-Park-type-shit.
That was shady ( before it was Slim ) and not worth my effort. Getting jumped by some bongo-playin hippy crew for...???

AND I would only sell it to my friends.

So it ended up that I sold pot to all of my friends in my apartment complex or I would just leave it in my hidey spot for my buddies, who I would trust with my life and had keys to my place anyway. It all worked out. It was cool. It was effortless. I'd come home from work and find new money and less pot in a drawer. I was a genius with an extra, small-time amount of about $100-$200 bucks every couple of months. Hey, it payed a couple of beer and utility bills.

Then it all got screwed up when my Mexican neighbors started to send their family members randomly to my door and when my friend/new roommate Chris, started to cut into my apartment-complex profits. I should've capped his ass. yo!

So. I quit.

And I only smoked some of my stash once...

I started to yell at my 'Trainspotting' poster


Which Trainspotting Character Are You?

and then fell asleep on my floor....

That's it...

Yo. Yo. Yo.