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

In bed or in a deserted police station...

I.
Don't.
Know.


Really.

Clear...

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

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

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

Great relationship, don't you think?

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

I didn't say anything, did you?

Let's go climb a tree...

Cat Scratch Fever...

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

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

Ouch.

Real Quick...

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

Gotta question though....

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

Seemed kind of stupid...

But it's MTV.

My fault, sorry.

What The Hell?...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vini Vidi Vietnamese.

Good night...

Underwear Where?...

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

Hitler's Dog...

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

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

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

I don't know.

Home Ec...

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

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

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

Fucking school. Blah.

Hey!...

I'm naked.

How do I look?

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

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

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

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

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

What Does This Say About Me?...

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

There's no hope for me, is there?

Goodnight.

Now Hiring...

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

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

Gay position? Oh, mannnn....

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

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

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

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

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

He's not talking about clowns is he?

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

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

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

You know what's worse than a clown?

Being one.

Fuckers.

Richard Gere = Hamster...

You mention them both in one post, and you're sure to get a hit sometime during the day.

Yup.

You Don't Know Me, Fool...You Disown Me...Cool.

As I was waiting at a light and listening to the bad reception on my broken car stereo, I noticed " No War! " tagged on the old movie theatre that nobody's ever done anything with. I don't know how long it's been there. Maybe it was old and I just didn't notice it. I had to give whoever that did it, "props" for climbing up as high as they did, and was glad to see something other than the usual, illegible, penis-posturing, gang bullshit that people usually spray all over the place. At least it meant something to somebody.

Now, If I could only catch some girls burning their bras at school...I will be a happy, smelly hippie.

I Hope The Dodgers Win Today...

Okay, let's get all of this football shite over with. The only reason I'm excited about today is because we're having a private work party. You would think that a work party would be something that I would avoid, unless I worked at Porno Village, or a comic book store or something, but today's going to be cool. Open bar! Time to waste! Free food! Aww, who cares about the food, but it's still going to be kind of cool. Did I say free booze?

I don't even know who's playing. The Raiders and somebody...

I hope that the team with the prettiest uniform wins...and that every couch jock in the world breaks their fucking legs...

Go commercials!

Go beer!

Go Banana!

Typed last night by Tom...

specially priced. . . formatted to fit your television....straight from our minds to your rods and cones, flipped around, and printed on your mondula oblongata. . .auto-shaded, shaped up, MSG free, fantastical, supernatural, steroidless, pulpless, and printless. . . blunted slut princess, ciao baby! . . in through the back door, quietly, watching you while you sleep, faking feline friendliness. . . energy's armor and synergy's shield, Pat Benatar said that "Love is a Battlefield.".... put this on your piece of bread and eat it up, quit that shit eating grin, damnit, stop smiling..... Sinatra's sitting in my easy chair, smoking, sipping scotch, singing Latin in my ear. . .losing my equilibrium. . .now playing everywhere. . . while supplies last. . . call now. . .the milk's spoiled.

Getting Drunk Tonight?...

Why, yes I am.

Thank you.

Bubba Ho Tep...

C'mon, people...you drive me nuts. What's the hurry? I drive the speed limit or a little bit above it. Maybe it's some of the asian blood in me. Maybe it's the Irish in me too. That means that I drive slow to the pubs. No, I'm a pretty patient guy when I drive. I'm not in any hurry - and If I am? Than it's probably my own damn fault that I'm late. I have people riding my ass every day. What do you have to do that's so important that you have to pass me? I've seen people clutch on to my car's arse like a greedy monkey and pass me by in a ferocious roar of SUV triumph, only to see me waving at them at the stoplight. Where are you going that's so damn important that you have to make an ass of yourself? Taco bell on fire? Are they running out of Chalupas? Something on television that can't wait to catch? What's so fucking important? Baby choking at home? Dog humping your diamond earrings?

Chill, freaks. You have a stereo in your car, use it. Sing along to opera and make up your own words. Look around at everybody at the stoplights. They're kind of scary, but funny. You know what's worse than missing a green light or being stuck at a red one? Alot of things. The world didn't end. It'll just be there sixty seconds later. Take it easy, you pent up ape-y things. There will always be banannas. You don't need to be the first one to grab them. Monkeys before you. Monkeys after you. Always.

Your car is not cool or unique. Ther are tens of millions of the things out there just like yours. Your bumper sticker sucks. I don't care what you're saying. Your music is not helping. You don't look any cooler. I don't think that you have your shit together because if you did, I'd be staring at your limo driver instaed of you. The bigger your car, the more I'm going to question what type of person you are. The more you talk on your phone, the more I'm going to avoid you. You're all fucking crazy. I don't understand. don't expect to, and never fucking did...and that's okay because I don't think I'm supposed to.

Ambulance drivers are cool, though. So is Micheal J. Fox in a Delorean.

I drive a four door Toyota Camry. All black, with tinted windows. I have a license plate holder from a friend's skateboard shop. I have a bunch of trash inside and my stereo is broken. That's my car. Who cares. Your daughter is bound and gagged in the trunk. She needs help.

Happy weekend. Good night, Bubba.

There's nobody to blame but myself...

No...wait. Somebody has to pay. I was ready to write after work. I came home late. About Ten p.m. I was just beginning to write a story but watched The Bourne Identity. The only reason that I got the movie is because my girlfriend thinks Matt Damon's cute. So, instead of writing, I watched the movie instead. I hate most action movies, all spy movies and all thriller movies because they generally suck. The only good thing about the majority of them is that they make me feel like a good screenwriter and they give me hope.

The beginning of the movie was actually kind of cool. What happened after that was a horror that even Stephen King can't accurately portray on paper. So now it's late. I'm starting to shake off my grogginess. It's two in the morning. I'd like to thank the makers of the movie for making this happen. They should have an awards show where average people stand up on stage and thank the makers of certain movies for wasting their money and time...

Bastards.

And I was going to write about clowns and shit too.

Back In The Day...

I once knew a girl named Amanda, who was nicer to me than I ever deserved. She was the type of girl who was the complete opposite of me, but never flinched when exposed to my old, barbaric habits and never once questioned me about why I acted like a complete freakazoid. Once, after some random instance of insanity that I forget, I invited her over the next night and assured her that we would spend a quiet night at my house, with no distractions, random lunatics or flying monkeys. I think we were watching tv on the couch when my roommate came home. She couldn't get her key to open the door, so I hopped up and stood in front of the door. It had glass window panes in it. I started to tease my roommate about not being able to get inside and thought it would be funny to hit one of the panes of glass with my forehead. My head went through. I heard the crash, and in mini-seconds cursed myself because I knew that I was going to have to replace the window because of my spur-of-the-moment stupidity. I drew my head back and started to laugh, but stopped when I saw the look of horror on my roommates face. Her mouth was doing the silent "O" thing. I was still laughing as I wiped my hand across my face and saw blood on my palm. I wiped it off on my shirt and put my hand to my face again and stopped laughing when I saw more blood there than before. Fortunately, my other roommate, Joe, had a mom who was a nurse. While she was putting stitches across the bridge of my nose and I was drinking beers, Amanda stood in the background, laughing nervously.

Two weeks later Amanda arrived at six a.m. in the morning to drop me off at the airport. I was flying to Texas to visit my sister. After knocking repeatedly on the boarded-up front door she found it unlocked and let herself in. She found me in the living room, sleeping with sunglasses on, and in a lawnchair. I had a 40 oz. of beer in my lap and burned out candles in a ring around me. Taped to my chest was a note written by my roommates that said, "remember to wake up at six!".

Now I don't know where she is. I lost touch with her. She was an entertainment lawyer last time I talked to her. After putting up with eccentric brats like me, she probably figured she might as well make some money with her high patience threshold.

I've learned alot since then.

Don't forget your key.
Glass can be thin.
Roommates are lazy help at best.
And some patient girls have got horrible taste in men, but mad job skills, bitch.

Question...

How is it legal that somebody can sneeze and then bless themself? How can you bless yourself? I even have a problem with people blessing other people when they sneeze. Why? I should give you my blessing because dust got in your nose? Why doesn't anyone bless me when I fart then? And if I crapped my pants, shouldn't I receive some "Hail-Mary's" or something?

The only person who should be able to bless themself after a sneeze is the Pope.

Goddamnit.

You've Got A Talent For Causing Pain, Hey!...

Dear reader, by the time you read this, I'll be gone. I took the dog and I'm moving to Chicago. No. It's much worse. I'm not leaving you...I have to go to the dentist. Aww, fuck a biscuit. Why? I have purposely been putting this off for awhile. I haven't gone since October? And I don't want to go...Help me, please.

Let's make this short. There are bastards like you that have never had a cavity. I have always brushed my teeth, at least once a day, but usually twice. Three times a day sometimes...and even though my teeth are straight and not bad-looking at all...the fucking things always need work. I haven't gone to the dentist since October because I went for three solid months before that. Mucho money that I don't have, Bubba. Two root canals, fillings, cute dental assistants knocking me out with Nitrous Oxide, and me waking up with teeth marks on my inner thighs...It's horrible!

I cancelled this appointment too many times and I have to go tomorrow. Create an emergency for me. Pull some "Fight Club" shite and knock out my teeth. If we ever get romantic with each other, I can just gum-love you. That's not too bad, is it? They said that the visit will only be about an hour, but I know better. I count on three or four. I'll betcha. The person who comes the closest to the total amount of time I'll spend in the dentist chair gets a surprise in the mail from me. Serious. Nobody I know, though. So suck it. I wonder if I could get a x-ray print out of my mouth? My dentist has all of that hi-tech crud. I hope they don't use that laser thing that makes smoke come out of my mouth. I might have band practice too, afterwards. If my dentist had a monkey that held my hand and read me Spider Man comics out loud, I would feel alot better about tomorrow/today.

I curse anybody with strong teeth.

I'm going to stick a voodoo pin in your anus...

Wish me godspeed.

Hoist Up The Nuthin'...

I don't have much to say right now. That doesn't necessarily mean that I won't be a talky bastard later, but as for now, my mind is wandering at too rapid a rate to get much down on the screen. Except now that I think of it, I didn't have much of a problem writing this, did I?...It may not be that good, but it's something, punk.

I just downloaded my three favorite Beach Boy songs of all Kevynn-time. Sloop John, In My Room, and Don't Worry Baby. Surfer Girl's good too, I forgot about that.


You know, I think I might be getting old…I was watching clips of The Price Is Right on the internet ( No, I don't know why I was doing it or how I got on the site, whatever it was, and I have no explanation for my actions, okay? ) and I saw a segment where the contestant gets to bid on three different things that they might win. They showed a motor scooter, an aquarium, and a dinette set, and I thought to myself...actually thought to myself, "Hey, now that's pretty cool."

What the hell is happening to me, Bubba?

Well, I feel so broke up...I wanna go home...

See? Like, I just thought that that was going to be an okay ending for this post. It was a sucky post, but to make it worse I tried to end it with a quote from Sloop John B by the Beach Boys? No, not the Beasties, but the Beach...

This is the worst trip...I've ever been on...


*Sigh*