When The Time Comes...

We will need to see this movie.

Ouch? What the hell was that? Jeezuz! Pain in my chest. Damn, I'm too young to die. Conan's on-not the conquerer. The talk show host. The body's kind of weird. Slapping you around every once in awhile. Pain here, eye twitch there. Zit. Rash. Erection.

You know, all that stuff, right?

It's Time To Start Thinking About...

These things...

Greedy? Yes.
Ashamed? Hell no.

I Suck...And I Don't Care...

So, I talk about trying to not eat meat.
I Rag on fat people, fast food culture and I hate t.v.

Well, I just saw a Burger King commercial advertising talking Simpsons watches.
All you have to do is buy a value meal...

Hell Yeah!!!

I am so there, Bubba!!! I'm going to order five of every single version and run around the store yelling, "THIS" and punching obese people in their bellies.

This is a good thing.

To Cleanse The System...

Of your Thanksgiving festivities...there's this.

Enjoy.

Hail To The King, Baby...

Whoomp! Here I am. Finished my last post-based-on-reader-comments-thing. Fun? Yes. Glad it's over? Yes? Was the last one a good one? No. Do I care? Ahhh...no. I'm glad Thanksgiving is over. I'm a waiter. I suck. I used to have a good writing job for a fancy-schmancy company and got treated like a baby. Fed for free and flown on skiing trips. A bunch of good shite. No more. Now I pretend to care how your $150 meal was. So, today I worked. Left as quick as I could. Went to the store. Came home. Called Father Malone. Talked about various stuff. Called my sis, Sindy. Read. Wrote. Played on the computer. Girlfriend came home. Now I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Drinking a beer, Phantom Menace is on t.v., and I'm pretending to write. This is a good ending to an otherwise poo-filled day.


Love my butt, please. Thank you.

Penguins...

1 . Most scientists recognize 17 species of penguins (del Hoyo, et al., 1992):

• Emperor Aptenodytes Forsteri -- Class of penguin that helped sway Anakin Skywalker to the dark side...


• King Aptenodytes Patagonicus -- Made good music. Got Fat. Produced a kid that could kiss Micheal Jackson...


• Adélie Pygoscelis Adeliae -- Was Early Grace's girlfriend in Kalifornia...


• Gentoo Pygoscelis Papua -- Lesbian penguin that has to bring her girlfriend everywhere...
  
• Chinstrap Pygoscelis Antarctica -- Football Jock Penguin.


• Rockhopper Eudyptes Chrysocome -- Lives in New Mexico, does psychedelic drugs...


• Macaroni Eudyptes Chrysolophus -- Smokes alot of pot, still lives at home with his mother...


• Royal Eudyptes Schlegeli -- Penguin who dies in a tunnel or writes this website...


• Fiordland Crested Eudyptes Pachyrhynchus -- Ummm...like a penguin that enjoys water and land bridges and stuff...sorry...


• Erect-Crested Eudyptes Sclateri -- Viagra penguin


• Snares Island Eudyptes Robustus -- Likes to set traps penguin? Sorry, again...


• Yellow-Eyed Megadyptes Antipodes -- Penguin with Jaundice...


• Fairy (also known as little blue) Eudyptula Minor -- Penguin who dresses real nice...


• Magellanic Spheniscus Magellanicus -- Portugese penguin who first circumnavigated the globe by sea...


• Humboldt Spheniscus Humboldti -- Penguin who grows the best weed...


• African (formerly known as black-footed) Spheniscus Demersus -- Penguin who still thinks Spike Lee is a good director...


• Galapagos Spheniscus Mendiculus -- Vonnegut Penguin...

Lame, yes...Sorry. I was going originally going to write about The Penguin from the Batman comic books and then talk about what a psycho Batman is, but this was easier-so lick it, Brian!...

Okay. No more. That whole 'write me a word' experiment was harder than I thought it would be. Next time I'll just ask for nudie pictures in the mail...

Chow...

Chow reminds me of Chow Yun Fat, the not-obese, Chinese action film star, and Chow reminds me of food. Hey, Thanksgiving, yoyoyo! I know that all of you are going to scream-especially all of my fellow fat ol' Americans. Especially Southern Californians, but...I...HATE...TO...EAT...( no, I'm not a super model, but I will be if you pay me ). Everybody likes food. Loves food. Food can't come fast enough for us. We all wish for bigger mouths so that we can jam as much shit in there as possible.

Okay. Dogs, right? We've seen them eat. They gobble, they inhale their food. This is an instinctual behavior. If they didn't eat their food fast enough in the wild or out on the prarie, another wild dog or Laura ingalls would grab it. I think that's why human beings and all of society gets so crazy, possesive, and fat about food. We're programmed to hoard and eat as much of it as we can. Yes, I know we also had to hunt, preserve, and store our food back then, but that was all learned behavior.
I am not the biggest fan of food. Yes, there are things to eat that I absolutely love, but I won't go all ape shit over it. Ill buy it. Maybe. There are preferences that I have. I will knock you over the head for your steak. Maybe your beer too. But otherwise? Feh! Food and the whole obligatory act of ingesting it is a necessary evil to me.
It's something that we all have to do, but I make a meal last as short as possible to me. This doesn't make me a fast food eater, I actually don't like the majority of the chains out here-it usually makes me feel ill or lethargic. Putting beef flavoring in the meat because it's lost it's natural taste in the processing doesn't help them either. Deforesterazation and excessive water waste too.

Eating is such a social behavior, no wonder the majority of us look like Alfred Hitchcock. Ask people what they did today ( not counting this day/Thanksgiving ) and they'll say, "Oh, Ryan and I went to McShitBurg" What does that mean? I didn't ask you where you went to eat, I asked you what you did today. Did you ride your skateboard around town?, offer candy to kids?, dangle them over a balcony? If we didn't do anything-then we should say nothing. But we think that we're doing something by engaging in the act of eating. I know, I know, some of the greatest times that I've had have been around some table somewhere over something-but I don't count it as an activity. I count it as trying to make something out of nothing due to the hilarious conversations of my friends. Dates? Eating. Meetings? Eating.

I like to poop. Serious. Sorry if this is too gross for you, but I love to poop. It's fun. I'll stay in there forever. Reading, thinking, whatever. Defecation/evacuation ( Alright everybody, evacuate! hee hee! ) is just as natural and enjoyable of a process as eating right? That's just as natural and necessary of a process. So why don't we hold business meeting in communal bathrooms? Because you can't order the poop that you want and it never comes when it's supposed to, huh? Why don't we ever have a first date in a bathroom with some nice atmosphere and some fancy music and then maybe catch a romantic comedy afterwards? "Gee, Kevynn-thanks for taking me to the bathroom tonight-it was great!"

Now this is making me hungry. I have to go. Girlfriend has to use the computer...and don't send me freeze-dried poop in the mail. Yam-chips are okay though...and...uh...yo mama...

Thanks, Chewie...

Existentialism...

Great. Thanks, Ichi-wawa. What a word. All that I needed to know about philosophy, I learned in kidney-garden-to kind of quote that Robert Fulghum guy. I remember that I had a cool teacher in philosophy. He was funny, bald, and happened to miss his classes the same weeks that I did. Yes! It was World Philosophy. What, as opposed to New York City philosophy? Orange County philosophy? Actually that does make sense, doesn't it? There is a difference.

Existentialism? Making me did up the old books that aren't around now that I need them. Existentialism evolved as a school of philosophy, borrowing from others, while never completely rejecting past ideals.
Kierkegaard -- humans suffer a deep anxiety because they cannot be certain of anything, of any meaning.
Nietzsche -- not only is there no logic to existence, but the truly strong person rises and masters the absurdity of life.
Existentialism is a paradox, as Sartre came to describe it -- an attempt to live logically in a universe that is ultimately absurd.

So what does this mean? Nothing. It means...enjoy yourself on Thanksgiving Day. Enjoy the moment. Everything will be back to it's crazy-ass self the next day or when the relatives leave. Don't eat the yams, either...because they suck...

Yams...

Stupid-ass yams. Yams are retarded. Yams are wrong. They're sweet! What the hell? If it looks like a potato, it should taste like one. I am God, and that's my new law. That'll be my eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not eat nasty yams. I'm gonna buy a yam tomorrow and burn it in the backyard in protest. Do you only eat free-range yams? Yams are like the distant, red neck cousin of the wonderful potato. If I had a gun, I'd shoot a yam next time I saw one. I'm a yam racist. I'm anti-yam. I'm going to buy the web domain Godhatesyams.com. I yam what I yam, and that's all that I yam...stupid Popeye.


Thanks, Diz...

Love, Jean Claude Van Yam...

Plethora...

Was there ever a man named Plethora? Was he the inventor of excessiveness? Was his house a mess and full of useless crap like my room is? Was he friends with Pythagoras? Did he drink much? If you asked him for a book of matches, would he pull out a drawer filled with them? He must've had a HUGE porn collection...

Alpha Blondy...

First I was going to write a story about me on a hunt for sexually-starved blondes. Then I changed it to a story about piloting a ship towards a planet called Alpha Blondy. Then I was going to tell a tale about fighting a wrestling jock. I just couldn't get passed the "Bloody" oops! not bloody- I couldn't get past the "Blondy" spelling. I wanted "Blondie" even though it's not really a word-but I really shouldn't mind because I make up my own words when I write anyway. So I found the real Alpha Blondy's website and it's not bad at all. Well, I only heard the song that plays at the beginning of the website. It made me realize that I don't have jack-shit when it comes to reggea in my music collection. Not even the obligatory Bob Marley's Greatest Hits CD. Doesn't everyone? But you don't have any Atari Teenage Riot, do you? Nope. I'll get this guy's CD. Now everybody get Atari Teenage Riot...

Attu, this is the fucking funniest thing I have ever seen...this thingy.

Foment...

Sad Story. Years ago I once needed money so bad that I sold a whole Darth Vader case of Star Wars figures to a guy who placed an ad in the paper. I think that I sold them for two bucks a piece, which netted me about forty much-needed bucks, but is still very sad when you think about it. Two bucks for a Power Droid? How? Two bucks for a Gammorean Guard? Why? Two bucks for Mon Mothma? Weeeeeelllll...that seemed about right.

Mon Mothma sucked. She was one of those weird-ass figures that they had that no kid really wanted-but somehow managed to get at Christmas or on a birthday. Mon Mothma looked like an action figure of somebody's really religious, anal-retentive stepmom or something.

So she might have been at the top of all time shitty Star Wars action figures to have. God, she was boring. I don't remember her having a weapon-maybe just a gay-old staff or something. She wasn't even hot looking, so Chewbacca humping her in the back of the Millenium Falcon wasn't even a redeeming option for her plasticky existence.

But I guess as far as Star Wars geek-dom goes, she wasn't pretty looking, but still pretty much a bad ass in the whole Star Wars universe. To the big ol' bad and evil Empire, she was a problem. She became disillusioned with the Empire and left to foment a rebellion against them. Enter Luke, Leia, Han, Chewy, your mom, etc...to save the universe.


Thanks, Elizabeth...

C'mon Punks...

Anybody who writes ONE word of their choosing in the comments section of this post will get the next post(s) written about their ONE word.

I hope that made sense because I'm not going to write it over, baby.

It'll make me stop reading these damn, old comic books anyway...

Stupid Winds...

Go ask Wil-He'll tell you too. We get these winds out here that suck my big fat one to quote Stand By Me. What did he say in that? Suck my fat one, you cheap dime-store prick? Was that it? Anyway, these stupid Santa Ana winds ( I don't know why they call them that-Santa Ana is a city out here-what, do they come from there or something? ) They're the kind of winds that wreak havoc on those with sensitive noses like mine. It feels like somebody stuffed a couple of chopsticks up into my brain and turned on the snot faucets. Sorry. Gross. I tend to sneeze alot. I'm not the type that sneezes once either. Or like a little mouse like some of you-that always drives me crazy with jealousy. I sneeze HARD. FAST and FURIOUS. Yeah, if Vin Diesel was a series of about five sneezes in a row followed by thirty others...that'd be what his next movie would be called...I don't care if that made any sense. My nose is buggin' the crap out of me.

Stupid Winds...

So A Customer Asked Me The Other Day...

Where I would want to live in the United States if I didn't live in California.
Somewhere like Montana. Definitely. Even though I've never been there, it just sounds good. Looks good to me from what I've seen. I want a ranch in Montana. A modest one with some horses. No cattle. Some chickens. Some Werewolves to fight. I want to walk around my ranch. Help my hired man out with some of the chores. Sit around on the front porch and smoke and drink and write. And I'll use "AND" all of the time in my writing. And I won't use proper punctuation-I'll have the fancy-schmancy east coast editor do all of that. I'll fly in friends whenever they want, or they can just raise a ruckus in the guest house. I want some lemon trees too. I don't think that's possible there-but I'll want fresh lemonade. AND to do that-I'll build a geo-dome thingy. Yeah, that's it. And I'll run around naked, dressed in war paint. With all of my dogs, who will help me fight all of the Werewolves...

Sounds good to me...

Friggin' 80's people...

Have you noticed all of the recent "celebrities" that have been in trouble the last couple of weeks or so?
Pee-wee Herman.
Principal Rooney.
Micheal Jackson-he's kind of an 80's icon, right?
Anyone else I forgot?

Who's next?
Hulk Hogan getting arrested for prostitution?
Alf for tax evasion?
Martha Quinn...um...I don't know...doing something? Anything?

I hated the eighties. I really did.

So, I Think...

That the "X" in "X-Mas" is a greek definition for Christ. So what does the "Mas" mean? Well, I know that it means "more" in spanish. So does that mean that if you're from a greek/mexican background that you're wishing everybody a Happy CHRIST MORE? More Christ? Mount Christmore? I don't need more Christ in my life, thankyouverymuch...

Anyway, I'm not that excited about Christ More coming up. I had some cool Christmasses (sp?) when I was young and when my weirdo parents were still together. Everything pretty much went to hell after I turned seven. A cute thing about my mother and father was that they thought that you had to have all of the Star Wars figures that were displayed in a little action panorama on the box. So they wouldn't quit until they found all of the figures. Every once in awhile, they couldn't find one and would apologize to me or my older brother and promise to find the figure after Christmas. My brother and I would say okay and give each other a look that said. Shut up. Don't tell them.

We all became pretty poor after my mother left. Then Christmas was always either a long-ass road trip to Texas or quiet mornings at our house. My father is a 5 a.m. riser. My brother and I were not. My brother was such a sleeper that if I tried to wake him up, even on Xmas-he'd tell me to fuck off and to leave him alone. The house smelled like coffee. My father always did the stockings kind of cool. Tangerines, Walnuts. Candy. Toothpaste, and as we got older underarm deodorant too. And a barbeque briquette. Ha Ha. Coal, get it? That was my Pa.

i'm gonna sneeezz.......ee....oh...okay maybe not....

Um...as I got older, I just started to ask for simple things because all kids want totally expensive shit when they start to grow up and most of us knew that we weren't going to get it. So we all just asked for a specific sweater, boardgame, skateboard-whatever. My father played Christmas music. That was always nice.

As I got older, older. I don't remember any Christmasses from sophmore year of high school on. I, by then, would usually try to get out of the house as soon as I could, to go hang out with friends. We'd wander around the city and not really do anything. I got booted after I turned eighteen ( did you see that coming? ), and all holidays became different. My older brother was already gone. I don't know where he was by then. My older half bro and sis always lived on the east coast. My father and sister moved to Texas. If I didn't visit my sister in Texas, I always spent the holidays in whatever dingy-ass apartment that I was staying in. My roomates would always leave to go to their parent's house and I had the place to myself. Which I grew to like. The day before, if I had the money-I would stock up on videos, beer and porn. No, just kidding-no porn. Maybe a t.v. dinner. A turkey one just for the poetic aspect of it. I'd write. I'd drink. It was actually kind of peaceful. My apartment complex was always deserted. Eerie, but nice.

After about seven p.m., a stray friend or two would start to filter in, usually laden with heaping amounts of leftovers for me. Friend's mother's always ask about me during the holidays-but my friends knew me so well they'd just tell their ma's that Kevynn likes to be alone for the holidays. It was never my choice, but I grew to like it. LOVE it. See, when my friends always came over to my place they were always tired because they had to drive some long-ass way away or put up with all of the family bullshit/talk/problems, etc. They were always itching to have a beer or something and by that time I was already drunk or happy that I got to go on a walk or write alot or watch a couple of movies.

So Christmas to me was never about family, it was just always a day ot two off of work and the chance to have a private Kevynn party. That's why I'm so low-key about it. I don't have to buy many presents. Just friend presents and that usually doesn't break you. Holidays are mellow times for me. Which is just the way I like it.

Now it's changed. I have a girlfriend. She has a family and now her family is my family. That's the way that it goes with them. And I like it. Im not ungrateful. They are all really cool and are very close-knit. I'm not used to it. Definitely not used to having to talk to grandparents and stuff for hours and having to eat around everybody and make polite talk and what-not. There is no way in hell I will ever be able to spend the holidays by myself anymore. Unless she breaks up with me or I chop off her head and throw it in a ditch or something. Like I said, her family is my family now, and I put up with her past and her crazy-ass upbringing-she has really put up with mine...
So I miss the old ones that meant nothing and now look forward to those that do, right?

I bought myself a Christmas present already...

You wanna see?

I'll Say This Before You Get All Busy On Me...

But I'm not excited about Christmas. Have I ever been? I don't know. Like all of us, I was back when I was a kid. But my yule tide cheer was probably due more to my expected Star Wars presents than anything else.

You know what?

I'll write this tomorrow...or in 10 hours or so. It's 4:18 a.m., "Herculoids" is on Cartoon Network. It's late. I'm glad today is over, I want to get back to that dream that I had last night. I was flittin' around, gliding more like it-like a vampire in a big mansion and had to sleep in the basement. I had a couple of close calls where I almost died in the mansion by falling off things and I remember that my friend's mother was in charge and didn't wan't me to be there. I remember looking at her butt and thinking that it looked out-of-shape.

Oh. I bought a big pack of candy canes at the store yesterday, That was my Xmas contribution. All of the grocery store employees were standing right by me and started to make fun of me because I had the candy canes, a 12-pack of beer, gummy worms, cigarettes, and cranberry juice. One guy asked where the vodka was and I said that it was at "their mama's!" One guy laughed. The other two didn't say anything. The checker girl just looked impatient.

I want to float around again.

bye.

I Swear....

I was going to sleep....

But There's an earthquake going on right NOW....

Whole lotta shakin goin' on, bee-yatch....



hmmmmmmmmmmmm......
i'm not kidding. This beer to my left is shaking....
That's why you should never go to sleep....look! the lamps are swinging a bit....
See? You miss all of the good stuff....

Insomnia Is Not A Stephen King Book Or An Al Pacino/Robin Williams Movie...

It's my life...BUT-

I am

Getting Kind Of

Tired, Doody-Fresh...

Thank You...

And remember, folks...

It's friday today-So this weekend, don’t do drugs that’ll make you smell like a hippie, cause holes to appear in your head, or make you want to fight the local law enforcement. Don’t have sex with anybody that Bill Clinton wouldn’t touch and don’t dangle anything out of a balcony unless it’s your penis or a child of Micheal Jackson's.

By the way, My neighbors just gave me twenty boxes of Jell-o....

What do you think I should do with it?

Update! More Important Than...

Iraq,
Shaq's big toe,
Micheal Jackson dangling his baby clones off of balconies,
or this...

As I promised Saara, I would use the word..."Pussy" in conversation today.
I wrote a "P" with a pen on my left hand before work. Well, I forgot cuz' it was all smeared after awhile-BUT! I did remember before I had to go. But I was working with all guys. They wouldn't even flinch if you just said that you had sex with a chicken. All they'd say is, "did the chicken have big tits?" So I worked it into a conversation with a customer. Or two customers, I should say. I asked how they were, they said that they were fine and the girl asked how I was. Here's the moment folks...here's where I actually said "Pussy" to a couple of complete strangers at work and wasn't using the whole "Cat" term.

After she asked how I was? I pretended to look around and said that it was kind of slow. Yeah, we noticed that, they said. Yeah...That's when I "Pussed Out" and showed them my notepad with the kind of cool picture on it...

That's when I kind of blurted out too fast, "See, I just drew a Platypus-see?" The gal leaned over to see it and the guy looked at me kind of weird. I said SEE twice and I said it too fast and I think that the girl only looked at it becuase I kind of thrust it in her face a bit. The guy was a freak anyway. I cheated though. But I did it. It was either that or tell them the dumb golfing joke that I know that ends with the word "Pussy Willows" in the end.

So if I write the word "PUSSY" one more time and the name of my site is called Fat Free Milk, what kind of Google searches are going to show on my site meter in the next couple of weeks?

Just Wondering...

But do you think Micheal Jackson ever dangled Macaulay Culkin
over a four story balcony in Berlin?
Did Culkin get an eerie sense of deja-vu watching video of it?
Was Micheal actually throwing the baby to a disguised but anxious Culkin down below?
Maybe they planned to meet up later after Culkin ditched the crowd. Then what? I don't know.
Micheal looks like a cat. Now his children, Prince 1 and 2
and whatever the hell the other's name is,
have to wear veils over their heads too. What?
I know why though. They actually aren't his kids.
They're all clones, see? Micheal's falling apart, so he had not one but three made.
Two boys. One girl. Whichever. Then he'll have his essence transferred to the
appropriate host/body when it's voice reaches full maturity.

I'm a genius. Thank you.

I Was Paying The $150 Cable Bill...

Actually, I was trying to pay the damn bill but there was a line.
I was after two skinny teenagers with spiky hair, two angry black guys,
and a fat, chipmunk-y lookin' noisy mother and son.
I don't mind waiting, it's my fault-I'm the guy doing the same thing that
everyone else is doing on my lunch brreak, so it's my own fault.
I watched some of "Big Fat Liar" with that Frankie Munchkin Monkey Munez-
whatever his name is from "Malcolm In The Middle".

Well, they had a computer there set up in the corner.
I got on after angry lookin' black guy no. 2 was done.
It had internet access so I checked out this site.
Does that make me a geek? Probably. I didn't think about writing something
In the comments until I left. Oh, and I also didn't bring enough money,
so I still have about thirty left on the balance.
That also left me broke so I couldn't go to the comic book store.

That's it.

Another Reason Why I'm A Bad Boyfriend...

Like I said, I was watching the Victoria's Secret fashion show thingy.
My girlfriend's sick, so I was going to re-soak a compress for her,
on my way to the sink I look at the t.v. and say, "Damn, did you see her vagina?"

Romance is dead, folks.

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.

Baseball. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I did try to hear the fireworks from my house, though.
Wouldn't it be alot more fun if they played with canned hams or ripe fruit instead of a baseball?
Or if the infield and outfield players carried Uzi's instead of mitts?

Or if a team lost, then their bat boys got sold into slavery?
Or maybe the losing team's pets got killed?
Or if they played the game while riding on the back of Rhinos?
Or had to have a pet monkey chained to their leg?

Or if a team lost, they'd get taken over by a huge, money-hungry corporation?

And yes, I was a crappy baseball player...

I've never found it difficult to write...

Even if it was just nonsense for crappy magazine deadlines, school assigments or work-related stuff.

So what's happening, Rawg?

I don't know, Rerun.

I'm staring off into space and have the opportunity to write now that the house is empty and...

I've looked at the turtle a million times.
I thought about writing something pertaining to end-of-the-world scenarios and what I would do.
I was going to post a list of favorite books of mine and tell what I would do if I was the main character.
Relate a funny story about childhood, but my head fixated on images of me throwing a tennis ball at my old friend Adam's nuts.
I thought about Batman and what a psycho he is, and things that I picture him doing in private. Besides beating the crap out of criminals.

Now I'm listening to the Jeffersons theme song.
I'm trying to get all of the songs that I have downloaded in this computer to play as a playlist and it's not working.
Everything plays at once.
Three videos on one format will load up.
So I see Two Oasis videos and Janine and Brett Micheals doing it.
T.V. theme songs on one player.
Chewbacca, Mogwai, Thundercats outtakes and Weezer on another.

AH. This is what I'm going to do...
Nope.
That didn't work.
I was going to list all of the SHITE I have-but I can't lift the text.

Oh well.

Bride of Frankenstein is showing tonight.

It's raining, though.

What to do?

Things I Remember About Kidney-Garden...

Little strips of scotch tape on the carpet with black marker X's on them in front of the chalk board.
I sat somewhere in the back. To the right, I think.
Feeding Caterpillars.
Eating birdseed off of the ground and getting in trouble for it.
Going to speech therapy every Wednesday.
This was probably because I was still living with my fragmented-English mother and played with my babysitters son-who was retarded.
He was cool, though. We always had a crap-load of fun. Smashing our heads into Lego piles and spitting on each other.
My father would get furious with me though because I always came home speaking gibberish. He called it my "Idiot Language".
I guess It started to rub off on my older brother too, so i had to go to speech therapy.
It wasn't that bad. It just made you feel like you had toddler cooties. Everybody would look at me when the teacher announced Kevynn Had To Leave.
Oh well. Now, I love to speak. I can't shut up usually. And I'm an eloquent bastard in real life.
Really. I'm not as stupid as I am on the written page. I was a drama-fag for a bit in high school until all of the party people left. I got smart and went into Home Ed and Guitar. I've done voice-over work for advertisements and cartoons. So lick It...Mr. KINDERGARTEN! You sucked! Except for the part where I got in trouble for chasing around all of the girls with the dead mouse I found out in the field. And except for the part where I ripped off a bunch of Dristan from my fathers medicine cabinet and took it out on the bridge over the sandbox and poured it into the dirt, thinking that a Dristan tree would grow...Except for the parts when I used to cruise around during reccess on one of the three-wheelers like a pimp. Cruising for...what...solidarity? A lack of confusion? Damn, I was a wacky kid, but still cool. If I have a kid like I was back then-I'll be lucky. I wasn't that bad. At least back then.

Now? I don't know...

I still like Lego's, spitting and...gibberish.

Oi Doi Dooey Dooey Ooo....!!!

There's Something Creepy About

me reading comic books online...

Oh, did I say 'creepy?'

I meant nerdy.

(Yes. A dork. I am.)

HOW CAN I NOT WRITE 2NIGHT?

KNOWING THAT IF I DON’T, YOU’LL FEEL A PANG OF DISAPOINTMENT AND HAVE TO START OFF YR. DAY W/OUT A SMILE OR UNDERGARMENTS FULL OF POO. I HAVE AN OBLIGATION AS NICE GUY/Kevynn/ INSOMNIATIC/writer…I THINK. IT’S MY DUTY. I’M SWORN TO A LIFE OF VERBOSE SERVITUDE. Really!

THIS WEEK, I NEED TO WRITE…AND BAD.
TO DO
WHAT I’D DO
WHAT
I THINK
I’M SUPPOSED 2 DO
IF I IGNORED FRIENDS AND THE OBLIGATORY DISTRACTIONS.

I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ANYTHING ANYMORE. I'ts late. I THINK THAT….

OH, I DON’T KNOW…

MY LITTLE SISTER USED TO KEEP SNAILS AND SHE MADE A LITTLE HOUSE FOR THEM. IT HAD SEPERATE ROOMS. A MINIATURE T.V. THE WORKS. SHE’D CRY IN THE MORNINGS THOUGH, WHEN WE WERE GETTING READY FOR SCHOOL. I COULD SEE THE DEWEY, PHOSPHOURESCENT TRAILS SHIMMERING ON THE WALKWAY. OVER THE WALLS AND OUT INTO THE BUSHES…SHE’D CRY. I WOULDN’T SAY ANYTHING. REALIZING HOW STUPID AND BEAUTIFUL IT WAS ALL IN THE SAME MOMENT…

LIKE THIS MOMENT.

HAPPY
FEELING everything
AND
nothing
TIRED
AND
RESTLESS

READY TO PULL THE WORLDS EARS OFF
TO WRESTLE IT
TO STAND ON TOP OF ITS COMATOSE BODY
VICTORIOUS
SCREAMING triumphantly
AND
BEATING MY CHEST
LIKE
A Monkey Thomas Malone

Its time to go to sleep… now...
Though you’re probably already slumbering…


time to go to bed
and
hopefully dream of

me closing my eyes…

and dreaming of …

writing better things than this...

P.S. I forgot to include something...

Damn, Today Went By Fast...

I tried to sleep as much as possible.
Had breakfast in the backyard with friends at 3 p.m.
Watched a couple of crappy cable movies with Dawne.
Went grocery shopping.
Fed my cat.
Wrote.

That's it.

I tried to salvage my reciept out of the trash-but couldn't find it.

I love grocery lists...

Maybe Tomorrow?

Never Sing Yellow Submarine

It incites violence.

I had to cocktail. It sucked. I hate doing that and usually don't have to. I haven't in a long time. I don't care about what my customers eat, let alone what type of cocktail they want to ingest after midnight. I've grown up and don't hate the general populace like I once did, but still like to avoid speaking with people that I normally wouldn't want to speak with. I got fuckered not suckered into the deal because the usual late-night bartender that we have on Saturday night-his wife just had a baby. So that meant I was the Obi-Wan of their Princess Leia plea, and they needed me to cocktail. I was their only hope. Fuckers. Like I said, I hate it. I'm the guy drinking-not serving the damn things. Anyway. Long dinner rush. Long and boring cocktail rush. The stupid World Series game was on earlier and it was pretty dead. Ten or so of my friends made it worse by filtering in and setting up a big table. I knew it would happen. I probably made the most money that I did off of them so I should be grateful-but I'm not. I'd burn the extra money I made if it meant that I didn't have to be there busy while they were in " Happy-World " and I was in " Concerned-About-Obligatory-Shit-I-Hate-To-Be-Concerned-With-Shit " Eventually time started to do its job and pass. I sang the last song of karaoke for the night. I spent some time passing out everybody's final bills and happened to turn my head and see a tall guy in a white shirt headbutt a guy. Uh. Wow. I remember Dawne yelling at me from across the room that there was a fight and before I knew it I was across the room and leapt up on table full of drinks and put myself in between them. I don't even remember what I said. I remember trying to push the white shirt and his buddy out of the place. White shirt guy was English and kicked the guy. Anyway...blood is really bright, isn't it? I've noticed that before. I don't know what the deal was-and I didn't care. I just wanted to get my girlfriend and my slave wages home. The cops came. Good. We closed. Dawne and Chris stayed after hours. We had a couple of drinks. That's it. Cool thing though. Some lady who is always at my work and talks too much told Chris that I was like Fonzie jumping up on the table not spilling a drink and helping with the fight. I like the Fonzie thing. And some other guy mentioned a "Shaolin" grace. I can dig the Wu-Tang style...

I'm glad it's over with...
I will never do it again.

AND---

Next time they ask me?...

What do you say, Kevynn Malone?

Things I have learned recently:

I am the undisputed master of "Connect Four,
the game with the red and black checkers
and those yellow slots that they slide down.
Y'know what I'm talkin' about.

That dried out crickets seasoned with
lime and pepper given to you
from the Mexican chefs at work aren't bad.

That I must be a real big dork. I got a job offer to host karoake.
The girl said that I had it in me and that she's never asked anybody before,
she said I would be good. To let her know. Oh man.

Don't ever tell anybody you're going to the bathroom at your place of employment.
Especially ill-humored co-workers. They turn out the lights on you and you
end up in a dark and stinky stall pooping out digested Mexican snack crickets
with an HTML book in your lap that you cant read anymore.

Yup. That's all of the knowledge that I've absorbed in the last twenty-four hours.

Oh, and one other thing that I've learned......

That I should've stayed in college.

If I ever met God I would ask him:

What music he likes.

If he was taller than me.

I’d tell him to cut his hair. He looks like John Frusciante. Yeah, it helps you get chicks-
but, c’mon. It helps you sleep better when it’s short. You don’t have to do that girly ‘flip’ thing.

I’d ask him where Hannah my cat was…

If I could borrow some money.

I’d tell him he needed to get some new clothes.

And would ask him if he works out. Is there a gym in heaven,
and what would the membership commitments be in the after-life?

Does he want to go skating tomorrow?

Can he pull some strings and help me get out of work this Saturday night?

Will he help me with the final drafts of my screenplays?

Has he ever seen True Romance?

Would it be okay if he could kill all bad poets?

How could God create light before he created the sun?

How could God create me in his own image?
Does he have bad eyesight, asthma, and two different-colored eyes?

How could he create the Olson Twins? Knowing the evil that lurks in the heart of men?

I’d ask him if he liked beer, and what kind. He strikes me as a Guinness drinker.

Do his ears ring every time someone says, ‘Oh my god?’

Wanna play ‘UNO?’

Wanna wrestle?

Wanna play chess?
I don’t think I’d want to play him though, his mind would always wander elsewhere,
and he’d be impatient, whine and accuse you of cheating and throw the game across the room and call you a ‘bitch’ if you beat him.

Why are some of your followers so 'you' damn stupid and SO fucking mean?

AND…if he really existed-How come lightsabers aren't around yet?

Jesus Christ!

My apologies for excluding Allah, Buddha, Zeus, Satan, that stupid sniper in Maryland, and David Koresh…

My mother is Vietnamese.

Even She wouldn't eat this cat.

I'm undecided how I feel about this...

Is it possible for a young woman to be so beautiful that she ties up traffic?

Evidently.

A 19th-century London confectioner known as Mr. Very put his daughter to work in his shop.

So stunning was she that people stood around outside the shops windows to watch her.

Not just a few people.

Crowds.

Historical footnotes say the police eventually got Mr. Very to send the young lady out of the city.

She was stalling both horse and foot traffic, they said, just because she was so strikingly beautiful.

We were at a strip club.

Tony and Melissa were in a corner somewhere making out. Was she dancing before? I don't know, but a girl who looked just like Penelope Cruz-and I mean pretty damn close to her started talking to me and...one of my friends. Yes. She was pretty. Really. Which was a surprise cuz' this place was one of those joints that heavily utilize the wonders of the black light. The light that pot-smoking hippies still use to listen to shitty Grateful Dead songs by. The light that also makes all of the fat, dimples, and post child-bearing stretch marks of strippers disappear. Well, sometimes. Here's the kicker folks...her body was to die for...but, unfortunately her voice made you want to die. It was that bad. That high. That shrill. She was nice. And talked alot. About tonight. Where she was from. Her kid ( Surprise Surprise ) . She had energy. The gift of stripper gab. She was pretty. And pretty awful. She sat and talked to the whole group of us for a long, long time because......we kept on paying her to. Over and over. Engaging her in conversation. Tipping an annoying voice? Yeah. Y'know-I think It was the best money I've ever spent at a strip club.

Ha.

Sad?

Yes.

Funny?

Also, Yes.

I better drink up...










I'm going to go see The Creature From The Black Lagoon tonight.
3-D!!! It's right next to the beer garden and outside at the Fullerton Museum.
This city has its moments at times. Hopefully I don't hurt myself.

I don't want to work.

Really.

I don't ever want to do anything for the rest of my life. Is that so bad? Even if it's a piece-of-cake job and something that I enjoy-who cares? I want to spend the whole day watching T.V. and regretting it. Spending the day filming movies that I'll watch over and over and only make sense to me. I want to see how long I can sleep. Or stay up writing or reading on the computer. I want to spend all of my time retyping Bukowski poems and to show them to my friends, telling them that I wrote them. To hand write a copy of Enders Game in pencil and ask them what they think. I don't want to do anything except drink and sit in the shade while my dogs, cats and my one Chimpanzee fetch beers for me, attack intruders and take my messages. Sounds good doesn't it? Of course it does. I know I'm A sick, spoiled American brat. Yeah. Okay. So. Whatever.

My father was a Chore-Nazi. Anytime I ever wanted money for something, it always involved dirt. Want some candy? There's weeds to pulled. A movie you're dying to see? Help me dig this ditch. Prom? Let's get rid of that palm tree. Yes. Of course. I learned good values from my ex Boy Scout/YMCA Counsler/Army/C.I.A./ U.S. Customs/ Father. I learned that you never get anything for nothing. Treats are expensive. And personal enjoyment's dirty. That we spend half of our lives working hard so that we can comfortably do nothing. That's why I'm giving up. No more. After my father kicked me out on my Eighteenth birthday, ( you saw that coming, didn't you? ) and after the year of fucked up travel, I've had some pretty strange jobs...

Before being kicked out-

I worked at a comic book store.
At Pizza Hut making...pizzas!

Wait a minute? That was it before being kicked out? No wonder I got booted.

After being kicked out-

I worked at a pizza buffet restaurant.
At a music/video store.
A drycleaners.
As a puppeteer.
Interviewed bands for one magazine.
Wrote fiction and poems for another.
Scripting/acquisition/voice-over work for cartoons and other various stuff for a company.
And was/am a waiter.

That's it?

Oh man...

That's it.

I want a ranch in Montana. Cattle, horses, and lemon trees to make fresh lemonade out of. Rabid dogs with bionic eyes. A lucrative script-writing contract. Comic books. Sindy And Chet as my next door neighbors. A pet crow. Stephen King and The Olson Twins on my speed-dial. Adolph Coors and Phillip Morris' mother's skulls. I want a real, working...lightsaber. I want to own stock in Blue Star Ointment, and to be able to help the world as I see fit. I want to eat elementary school cafeteria food again, my dear Watson. To play with Atari Teenage Riot, Man Or AstroMan and Dean Martin.

I want. To read. Think. Watch.

To watch Porky's movies constantly.

And to watch that porno that I saw when I was young, about the guy who-

infiltrated that middle-eastern embassy and had missles that shot out of his......................


Bye. You Bastards. I'm Tired.

If you need a self-confidence booster, then click on this.

Check it: a link.

This is good shite...

Y'know...It's kinda sad when the longest post that I have is something that I swiped from someone else's website.

I'm trying to figure all of this html stuff out, I swear. See? Instead of playing hooky from school-I should've been studying computer code. Damn. In getting kind of old. We didn't have any of this crap available. We had typing classes on computers though. I lost a weeks worth of work and was seriously tempted to throw the damn thing through the window. I came close. I'm glad I didn't. I was always getting in trouble. Not for big things usually. Just stupid stuff like tardies, arguments with teachers, water balloons, and ' Kick Me! ' signs on my math teachers back. I had a computer at my fathers house in high school. It had Word Perfect on it. I never typed a word at his house. It wasn't conducive to creativity or privacy. It's all about fat, fuckin' notebooks and old 60's era Smith Corona typewriters!

By The Way...Southern Californian Chinese egg rolls suck. Thank you. Search for some Vietnamese ones.

At least they don't try to CHEAT YOU AND STUFF THE DAMN THINGS WITH COST-EFFICIENT CABBAGE.

I didn't mean to do all of that in CAPS---

but I'm too lazy to erase it all.

SUFFER.

Reading ' Roots ' again. Its been awhile.
I just picked it up with Mark at the Fullerton Library used book sale last Saturday.
What else did I get?
Well, I'm glad you asked...

1) A King Tut book.
2) Three science Fiction novels from some guy named John Taine.
3) A Margarat Atwood book?
4) Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth.

and a beer cap. I found that in the bag. All for the amazingly low price of a dolla-fiddy.

I took all of these books out of the bag for you, you know. You better appreciate it.

I've never seen the show ' Alias '

But I respect it.

It's automatically in my ' Cool Book '.

aka: Images to touch yourself by.

Dude! Where's My Link?

Where's my dignity? Talking about an actress? Damn, I'm sad.

Printed with No Permission.

Email me at Kevynn75@hotmail.com for the link. And you better say hi to me and tell me something wacky or complimentary, or I might not tell ya' where I swiped this from.

I've always loved this article!

Friggin'

Fargin'

Shite!

---------

My Generations Timeless Classics: Oregon Trail

posted by B

It must've been really hard to have a little house on the prairie.



The winters were hard, your children would randomly go blind, and a big tree fell on the guy with the Oakland A's hat from "Highway to Heaven" once. Not to mention that your best daughter (at least the one the camera was on most of the time) was always off fishing with the town banker Mr. Sprague in some weird pond/prostitution ring to get him to buy school books for her. Now I know why Michael Landon always had that look on his face, somewhere between Dirty Harry, squinting to see an eye chart, and pooping out a two-footer. And the worst part about living on the prairie is that you can't even have normal dogs. All the dogs on the prairie look like hamsters standing on their hind legs. Thanks a lot, Darwin!

But as hard as it was to live on the prairie, it must've been even more difficult to pack up your bags and head off to a better place out west. I recall the story of the Donner Party, who left their homes in Illinois for the bright lights and hardly talented basketball teams of Sacramento, California. They ended up eating each other. And just recently, Richard Donner directed "Lethal Weapon 4," which showed us that Jet Li's years of dedicated training and natural ability are no match for Mel Gibson's feathery hair and Danny Glover's belly full of twinkies. It is an American tragedy we're still feeling almost 4 years later.

Since roughly 1985, public school children (known as "the ones God hates," as I understand) have been conditioned to fear and respect the journey made by those brave, ass-meat craving Midwesterners with no sense of direction. It was the year the Nintendo Entertainment System hit it big, but games that were actually FUN...like Super Mario Bros. or Duck Hunt...were just hitting the outer shell of importance in our lives. Sure, they were fun...but they weren't being dangled in front of us as the only alternative to middle school typing class like Minnesota Educational Computing Corporation's "Oregon Trail" was. Oregon Trail is neither very fun nor especially challenging, but the quest to GET the game early enough in class to finish it before the period was over became akin to the quest a man lost in the desert undertakes to keep vultures from pecking out his eyeballs. Oregon Trail was our oasis, our relief from the most useless and brain retarding lessons our early 90's computer tech teachers could muster up.

Am I the only one who got fed up with the goofy sentences we were forced to type? Most people really got into the class in sixth or seventh grade so it was a giant Delorian ride back to kindergarten in the grammar and syntax department. Some of the classics include:

a sad lass
she had a green jade
he had a jak sale

What in God's green name is a fucking "jak sale??" I can't remember the name of the rapidly developing and (subsequently) rapidly undressing redhead that sat next to me in class or the color of my teacher's hair, but I can still type "he had a jak sale" thirty-thousand times a minute. If I ever come across a jak sale, or a sale of green jade from some sad lass I'm going to buy them all, and burn them.

I remember the first day we were introduced to the game distinctly. I thought our teacher said "Organ Trail," since we all come from Virginia and can barely even walk upright, much less speak coherently. So I was expecting something completely different from a trailblazing game, something along the lines of Splatterhouse (which was HUGE for about 20 seconds) or possibly a computerized attempt at sex education. I remember playing "Kings Quest" and commanding him to "fuck" everything in sight. He just kept saying "I cannot understand." And you wonder why so many of us are getting pregnant nowadays.

Today's Sexual Education:

"Today, Snowhite was turning 18. The 7 Dwarfs always where very educated and
polite with Snowhite. When they go out work at mornign, they promissed a
*huge* surprise. Snowhite was anxious. Suddlently, the door open, and the Seven
Dwarfs enter..."



Though completely devoid of lesbian fairy tale double entendre or (debatably) action of any kind, Oregon Trail became such a fantastic diversion from school work and jak sales that it instantly turned into a classic, and an electronic cornerstone for many of our lives. Some of the dorkier kids would always choose Math Muncher, or Kings Quest ("What shall I do now?" FUCK the tree), but on any given day the hallway would be filled with the goofy DOS music pumping from our computers like a pimply raver trying to ease his last dollar of gas into a car without spinning glow sticks around and passing out. It was a painful procedure all the way around, but it was worth it, dammit.



Oregon Trail starts off with a 20 minute anime cut scene...no...actually it starts off with a white screen that says "Oregon Trail." The blood boils with excitement! Around this point, the dumber kids in class (the ones who sat in the corner during gym class drawing the Grim Reaper on their Trapper Keepers and the cheerleaders...not that I didn't love the cheerleaders, because I did, but even oncoming puberty can't defend a chick who can't understand that typing "Y" means "yes" and "N" means "no") would give up. The choices come a mile a minute, and before you know it you're choosing your own destiny -- picking whether you want to be a banker, a carpenter, or a farmer.

Picking "banker" means - you start off with so much money that you can buy food for the entire trip, never have any problems, and keep your family from getting typhoid. And trust me...your family is gonna get typhoid a LOT. No matter how well off you are or how well you play the game, the Minnesota Educational Wrecking Crew Corporation has programmed the game to give you outlandish diseases and make you die. It's a lot like your Mom! OOOOOH BUUUUURNN



The new look of Zelda disappoints fans.
Picking "farmer" means - you start off with very little money, but if you win the game as farmer you get the most points. Getting the most points means...absolutely nothing. Games where you earned respect based on how many points you get died long before I can remember, and is only survived by games like "Dance Dance Revolution." Personally I would like all people who get off on Dance Dance Revolution to get typhoid and be buried with a humorously obscene tombstone along the Oregon Trail. This brings up two of the best parts of Oregon Trail:

The diseases - You name it, this game has it. As you progress down the trail, pressing the space bar every two seconds to remove the "bad water" and "insufficient grass" messages that pop up after every step your oxen take, the game plays God and decides to give you, say, "dysentery." So your character takes a dump until they die. You never get shot in the neck by Indians, or punched humorously by John Wayne like all the trail goers I've ever heard about, you get the shits and croak. You also get cholera in the game, so I'm guessing Minnesota's Educational Computing involved a lot of uncomfortable bathroom time.



Pick yourself up and try again. You can reset and try again!
The tombstones - When your party dies off, the leader of the group gets buried where you stopped. That way, when you play next, you can pass by and look at your past failures. As emasculating as this may sound to the bad Oregon Trail player, it's one of the best parts of playing the game at school...the kids (no matter how old they are, they maintain the 2nd grader sexual maturity) give their party leaders names like "CUNTBUTT" and "ASSFUCK" and "COCKEATER," a far cry from names like "Jeb" and "Mary" that the game suggests. The tombstones also come with an epitaph feature, which allows the educated player to leave a fond farewell to the dearly departed...most of these read like "BETSY IS A WHORE SHE EATS THE MOST DICK" or, if there isn't a personal vendetta to attain during the period, "shit shit shit shit shit fuck fuck fuck." Finding an Oregon Trail tombstone without profanity on it is like finding a good episode of "Primetime Glick."



What is the first name of the wagon leader? I'm a name her Bonnie.
Anyway, back on the subject...

Picking "carpenter" means - you get an average amount of money, you're good at fixing any wheels or axles that may break along the way, and you have the satisfaction of pretending that you're Jesus on your way to heal some lepers or smote some Pharisees in Oregon.

Game strategies involve choosing which month to leave in (if you leave too early the Spring weather and cold can be detrimental...if you leave too late you chance getting caught up in December snows), budgeting your cash so you have enough supplies (like clothing to trade the Indians, food to give to the Indians, and bullets to shoot Indians and take your clothes and food back), and, most importantly of all, the BEST part of the game:

HUNTING~!!!1



Have you come here to play Jesus to the lepers in your head?
Don't expect those flashy Commodore 64 graphics you've been hearing so much about, Oregon Trail makes you feel lucky to get a few trees, bushes, or rocks in your hunting grounds. Your naked little albino man travels out into the black wilderness (there's some subtext I'm missing there) to slaughter the wildlife for your own survival. No matter where you stop, the little critters zip around the screen, like squirrels, rabbits, and deer. The real satisfaction comes when the bears and buffalo show up. What's more educational than causing some extinction? Wasting what you kill! Yes, Oregon Trail allows you to slaughter thousands of pounds of meat per stop, but only lets you carry 100 pounds back. Leaving a trail of rotting buffalo guts at least gives you vindication when Oregon Trail gives you Hershey squirts and you die.



Another anal retentive part of the game is crossing the various rivers you come by...they range from a foot deep to 20 feet deep, and the options get better. You can caulk your wagon and float it across, which works 99% of the time. If you've got the urge to lose the game for some reason you can attempt to ford the river, which involves just basically driving your wagon right through the center of it. If there's anything deeper than a thimble full of water you bet Oregon Trail's gonna over-exaggerate two feet of water enough to drown all your oxen and family with. There's nothing sadder than a river full of dead bodies, with little spurts of diarrhea popping up every few seconds to mark the tragedy.



Ike Turner beat his wife for singing about this stuff.
Making it past the Gamecube-quality illustrated towns and monuments allows for ANOTHER River adventure...one of the most exciting moments in the game, when the player is called upon to use motor skills unsurpassed in modern sports and entertainment. As your wagon floats down the river at about a frame every 10 seconds, you see these rocks up ahead...so you have to push the right or left arrow keys on your keyboard to MOVE THE WAGON. OMFG it's so much fun, we would gather around the comp of whoever had made it to this part, because it's like the victory lap. And just like how Oregon Trail looked like Resident Evil next to SHES A SAD LASS SED A JAKED LAD, the river rafting looks like Wipeout XL compared to plodding journey between anal leakage warnings.

What's the big payoff, you ask? Do you get a big celebration, a lengthy tribute to the hardships you had to face, or even a big pack of toilet paper? None of these things.



A mere congrats and instant judgment based on how many points you earned. Is this a macabre message to middle school miscreants that running away from your problems won't get you anywhere, or that overachieving and braving new worlds isn't going to get you anything but a half-assed pat on the back and indifference? The worst part is that Oregon looks like every other landmark you cruised by on your way here. They could've at least put some gold or some payoff in there. This was Oregon to me in 1985, confound it, I wanted a big digitized picture of Clyde Drexler dunking for my efforts. Instead, the bell would ring, and I'd go to art class.

The message learned here is that we are doomed to forget the very men who paved the way for our freedoms and enterprise. If we've gotten anything from the people of Minnesota outside of a football team that can't win the big game and Mr. Perfect Curt Hennig, it's the computer education in social and achievement irrelevance. It's almost as bad as Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!!!, where Mike rewards your efforts with a lame compliment ("I've never seen such finger speed!").

But Oregon Trail has a place in our hearts, regardless. Whenever we're tired of good graphics, interesting gameplay, or anything that involves productively spending ones time, Oregon Trail's bouncing music rings in our ears as a fond remembrance of a time when school wasn't about getting pregnant and shooting the popular kids. It was about she having a green jade for her jak sale and gathering around the computer to celebrate innocence, perseverance, and accomplishment.

And poop.

Lots and lots of poop.