31 July 2005

Turquoise Hexagon Sun

Right. If you could take everything you were. Take everything you are. All this is shit that is shaping everything you will be and place it all in one room, all your guilt, humiliation, pride, accomplishments, diplomas, music, clothes, thoughts, possessions and spirit. If you had the chance to light it all and watch it burn into the night, would you? I would. Fuck it all. This isn't as simple as does the good out weigh the bad. This is much more complex. This isn't about revolution. This isn't about starting over. This isn't about evolving. This isn't about destroying to create. This is about fuck it. Goodbye wet dreams involving your friend's girlfriends. Later decisions. Bye debt. Goodbye Yossarian. We hardly knew ye. Hello Peter. Who the fuck are you? Doesn't matter. I'd be brand new. Brand fucking new. And Peter wouldn’t be like me. Peter would be cool. Peter could pick up chicks at the mall. Peter would love to socialize. He wouldn't find everything wrong with everything. But Peter would suck. Peter would have no taste. What brings this on Yossarian?
I got an AIM message from someone whose identity will remain secret, mainly because I don’t know who he is. This is clearly not his AIM name, but the conversation went like this:
RhymeBitter01: Yossarian?
Onlydeathblows: Who's this?
RhymeBitter01: You don't know me. I have to say something.
Onlydeathblows: Who is this?
RhymeBitter01: It doesn't matter. My name is Larry. I read your Blog.
Onlydeathblows: Cool right on. Thanks for reading.
RhymeBitter01: I just wanted to say I really enjoy reading your shit. Also I recently took some of what you wrote about women and it got me laid. Thanks.
Onlydeathblows: ...
I ended the conversation. You don't fucking get it do you? This is why I don't get laid, because I feel this way and because I'd rather be right than a douche bag. You plagiarize my shit and con some hooker into fucking you. Kudos. Fuck. What is wrong with you? I am so fucking happy that my feelings and thoughts are just the thing you needed to get the cum dumpster drinking rum at some shitty club to fuck you. I feel this way because of people like you. I hate you. I always have and I always will. Die. The whole fucking lot of you. I meet girls and they don't trust me because of the countless times they have been dicked over by guys like you. Now you rip my shit off so you could feel like a man and the next non-douche she meets she will shit on as revenge toward the gender. I hope you are fucking happy. Quote Mr. Stipe next time you want to get laid. I feel this way because this is how I feel. I hope it never gets me laid. That is the fundamental difference between you and me. And fuck you. I work on a higher plane. I am tired of being punished because I am better. I hope they create a new circle of hell for you to suffer in. You won't be alone.

29 July 2005

Organ Donor

Right. Apparently when all one eats is cereal and popcorn, leaves the dishes in the sink for well over a month and spits tobacco on the dishes to add flavor. The chemicals react creating the most vile smell known to the olfactory senses. Luckily, my maid did my dishes for me today.
I had a dream last night involving my old tumor's sister. She is the best looking woman I have ever seen. I wish I had met her before my cancerous tumor. She's really wild man, She’s something else.
The army loves routine. Schedules run this institution. We thrive by them. We don't know what to do without one. We plan out the next six months and do our damnedest not to break the schedule. For instance, my day is, wake up and go to PT. I then come back and shower and eat breakfast. Then I go to class. Then we get lunch and then it's back to class. We end our day and I go to the gym and come home and drink till I fall asleep. Our lunch goes from noon till one everyday. I hall ass to my car, barely make the first light, drive six blocks so that everyday at 12:06 I see her. This is the best part of my day. She runs. Where from, I couldn't tell you and I wouldn't know where she runs to. But I know she will run in front of my car as she crosses the street, which borders the left field line of the little league diamond. I stare. I sit at the light and watch her run. I inhale her as she runs past, never noticing anything but her next step. She chooses the worst clothes to run in. She sometimes runs in those black polyester pants girls wear to clubs. Sometimes she runs in a sweater and shorts. Her hair is always wild and free. Flowing around like the mane of a horse galloping in the open fields of Montana. Her hair is darker than my car. She is probably some Major's wife. He probably cheats on her. I hope her name is Ivetta. I hope she runs forever.

28 July 2005

Luckenbach Texas

Right. I sit around doing nothing. I drink cheap beer alone all night, every night. Pabst. You know it. I wish I would hit the number. Or have some superpower. Because I would waste it.
I want to start running. I just want to run. I want to hit my door and pound feet to the street until I have run out of room. Veins pumping battery acid has nothing on me. I want to reach the point where if I move one more muscle I will die. I want that feeling and I want to let it swirl around me and bathe in it like it's the salt baths of eternal life. I want to hit the point where the only communication I have had, for so long, is with myself that I know the story. I don't want to know how to form words with my mouth and utilize the muscles in my throat to grunt them out. I want to hit this point and smile because I would know something no one else would. I would have that knowledge, that power and never share it. I would monopolize it like it was worth something. But no one else would care. Because the Real World is on. The point in battle where chaos makes sense and is completely rationale. You can't adjust back to civilized life because the bedlam is home. It feels more safe there than anywhere. You don't know how you lived without it. I swear I could love you if you gave it a chance. I swear you wouldn't think of him when you use your favorite shampoo. But I would. I wouldn't be able to escape his shadow, in my own mind. I would haunt this haunt I've haunted before. I couldn't escape. So I would embrace it, call it home and receive my mail there. But it could be fun.

27 July 2005

Built A Moon For My Rocket Ship

Right. Half-day today. Word. Don't show up till noon. Say word. Watch cartoons all morning. That's how I get down. It's how I roll. It's how I do my thing.
I have a list of shit I have to buy soon. This list includes another Playstation, a new leather jacket, sweaters, clothes, rims, a TV, DVD player, stereo, this kick ass key ring I seen over at Tiffany and a boat. Yes. A boat.
I decided last night that I am going to be the guy who lives in the shitty sailboat on the pier. Like the guy in the movies. That's going to be me. Just hanging out on my boat. I'm thinking of doing this in Boston or Seattle. Somewhere where I won't sweat my balls off year round. That will be cool, because no one talks to the hermit guy living on a boat. Now of course I will have to have a job in one of those cities. So find me one.
Last night was an onslaught of decision making for me as I also decided that I clearly must make out with Keira Knightly. This must happen. It is imperative for the safety of the WORLD, nay the UNIVERSE! I would sell my arms and legs to get her to make out with me.
In another decision I made, the Cardinals will win the World Series this year. I decided the Steelers will win the Super Bowl. The Blues will win the Cup, I also decided. I was going to decide about basketball, but I hate basketball, so I said fuck it. I decided that at least four NBA players will be arrested this upcoming season for law violations.
You taught me how to live.
So my effort to get K-Luv to move to Seattle with me seems to be failing. It fails for one main reason. I know he has a phone. I seen it. I have talked on it. I made drunk phone calls to Louis on it. I have heard it ring. I have been in its presence. I have had it in my pocket. I know he know how to use it. He has called me on it. I have seen him use it. However, lately it would seem that he has either lost it, broken it or has sustained brain trauma on the part of the brain that remembers how to answer the phone.

26 July 2005

Take Your Hat Off Boy When You're Talking To Me

Right. Why did anyone decide that making the movie, "Down With Love?" Was a good idea? That movie sucks. It's worse than, "Legally Blond." I need a massage. My shoulders feel like the muscles are shrinking while my bones are growing apart. I am in some serious pain.
You don't need to know about everything.
Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum. Can you hear it? Do you see them? Are you aware of the ramifications? Do you care? Is this the end? I'm feeling better about it. There is a certain amount of uncertainty that comes with any decision. Where is the coyote when you need him? He'd strap a rocket on his back, pass his intended target and slam into a giant rock. We would all get a kick out of it. Because no matter how much he kicks the shit out of himself, his hunger doesn't allow his pride to take over.
My favorite fruit is the peach.
I have knowledge, imparted to me from a reliable source, that the new fall clothing line ups will be rolling out soon. This mean I can go back to wearing clothes again. I have been wearing my only pair of shorts and going through t-shirts by the truckload for the past two months. I hate summer.
Why, in any of the films, can't Batman wear the blue cape and mask and all? What’s the harm?
I seriously want some sushi. I want to eat it in ways and amounts, which would make you puke on account of the ways and amounts.
I took a three-hour test today in fifteen minutes. I missed two questions. Sheesh. Sometimes it seems so useless to even try. I wish it would rain. Forever. Noah had a good deal. But not as good of a deal as I saw this guy had last night. He was hitting skins many a woman. And by hitting skins I mean boning. And by many a hot woman I mean Zeta Jones.

25 July 2005

He Loves To See Them Break

Right. I am not sure if you are reading my man The Taste or not but he is some funny shit. I have no beef with plugging for him because his shit is funnier than Full House. So do yourself a favor and go over to my shit list and click on taste shit. And taste it. Taste it all. Indeed.
So I got the email I was waiting for. I am trying to diversify my bonds.
I have always wanted a friend named Julio. I couldn't tell you why. But, in my mind, Yossarian and Julio would make a good team. People would take note of that. "Where is Yossarian? Oh, it figures he’s with Julio. Their personalities compliment one another very well." People would say. I'll bet they would even come up with a nickname for us. "AHHHHH SHIT! Look who showed up it's Yo-J." That would rule. Sadly though Julio would get cancer at a young age and I would be forced to watch his body slowly eat itself. But that Julio, he's a trooper. He stayed bright until the end. He always joked about his basketball ability. We played games and all while he was in the hospital. He died in his sleep on a Tuesday in November. Fall deaths are appropriate. Picturesque funerals and all. But sadly, I never met anyone named Julio. And I'll bet every Julio out there is happy on account of the tragic ending that would fall on them.

23 July 2005

Thy Swan A Crow

Right. Went out with some people from OBC last night. I don't know why they invite me and I don't know why I go. I seem to not be able to get along with people. And, according to some, I am very boring. Damn.
I am fucking starving. I want a steak. Make me one now. I like it rare as fuck.
Is the day so young?
I don't think I have ever been so hungry. Christ.
No reply in the old email box today. It could be worse. A woman could cut off your penis while you sleep and throw it out the window of a moving vehicle.
Unfortunately yes, everything in the post about my nephew is true.
I had this dream last night that I was just shoveling. Nothing happened. I just kept shoveling. No words, no sounds, no breeze. Nothing. Just me a shovel and some dirt. No thoughts. It was peaceful. Nice. It seemed to last for years. I always dream in color. It looked like fall, but it felt like winter and it smelled like spring.

21 July 2005

Visual Music

Right. My nephew is a married man. Allow me to mark this joyous occasion with a recap of your life. Specifically, your life with her.
You must have been like, what, 17? You meet. Love at first site. I know how that is. Beautiful. The way she plucks her eyebrows off and draws them back on. Unevenly. She also thinks it's hot to start the eyebrow stenciling above the middle of the pupil. This does accomplish in drawing attention away from the rest of her malformed face. Seriously. She has no discernable human features. But I digress.
Ahh the good times rolled from there. You went on vacation with the whole family and ran up a 700-dollar phone bill talking to her all day and night. Somehow in the 13 seconds you weren't talking to her for that week and a half, she managed to bone another guy. He subsequently killed himself and she was so distraught over his death you begged your mother for plane fare home to console her. You are a prince. She claims to have met the fellow four hours prior to his death.
But wait. We have more splendid memories to dazzle your future children with about when daddy and mommy dated. We can recant the time she wrote you a sexually explicit letter and left it in your bathroom at your mother's house. The material would have made Red Foxx blush, God rest his smutty soul. Your mother found said letter. Your new wife then proceeded to call your mother a fucking bitch to her face for interfering with, "the true love," the both of you share. Charming.
And who can forget the time I am called over to your house to your mother crying because she just lost a grandchild. Yes it seems your wife was working her biweekly shift at Burger King when a coworker physically attacked her. She has complained about this coworker on a number of documented occasions, but on this one shift, he beats her resulting in the loss of an unborn child the two of you conceived. On account of the fact she has no drivers license at the age of 19 you pick her up from work. She runs up the stairs to retell the shocking story of the abuse. But alas, the whole story was apocryphal when she confessed it was all a lie. The reason for the lie was never disclosed. Sorry you didn't get the big check from suing the fuck out of Burger King. But at least you continued to pour concrete on the solid relationship foundation the two of you are building.
Then, in a very classy move, everyone finds out why she never graduated high school. Turns out when she was a freshman she was caught blowing a number of dudes in a row in the bathroom. The consequent suspension from school only resulted in her mother finding her pulling the flying turkey with four men on the bed she was conceived in. Her mother pulled her from school and she never bothered to take the GED. It is enough to make anyone swell with pride for having the same genetic material as her.
Recently she has faked some new fangled "knee cancer." A medical marvel she is. Hopefully we will all see the miraculous story on a heartwarming edition featured on Dateline. Because I am sure she will beat knee cancer. She has also faked ovarian cancer.
At the very least she has provided me with an arsenal of comedic stories to entertain my friends with. I am happy that the stories will continue to filter down to me. I wish you a long marriage. But such wishes are not needed due to the fact that you being in the Navy and away at sea for months at a time, her penchant to fuck other people, her lack of an education, her lack of ability to operate a motor vehicle, your complete uselessness in every aspect of being a human being and your brain power of a light bulb filament are all very conducive of a happy marriage. I wish you the best, you daft twat.

Amo Bishop Roden

Right. Fuck. Bullshit. I found the buried treasure. It wasn't worth the effort. I have another test today. Unfortunately, there is no space on the test for what they really need to know. By "they" I clearly mean both the test taker and giver. No space. But then the questions aren't really the question. The questions are just filler, commercials even, before the question.
They blew up the drugs. Good for them. This movie sucks. Kung Fu on sport bikes? This is horrible. Pepsi vs. Mountain Dew. Christ. Women are hot though.
I been thinking about getting into the farming racket. That could be a good gig.
Wet secrets.
I ain't got shit for you. I been bled dry. I can't think of a thing. There's nothing left in the tank. I spent it all. I blew my wad. I have never been comfortable using that phrase. "I blew my wad." That’s disgusting. It's weird how I find that disgusting but I have no problem talking about blood clots or calling someone a bloody cunt rag.
Anyway, I doubt I will be writing anything else. I can't think of anything to write about. Wait scratch that. I got it back. Nope. Lost it again. Fuck beans. I don't know where I am. I do. But it was funny when the Fonz said it in that Adam Sandler water boy movie. I might start sleeping on the sidewalk again. Not that I was ever really down with it. But I accomplished that feat a few times. Shit. Why do I bother? Why do you come around here? Do you enjoy being poked and prodded? Or just prodded, as it were. Where is my wallet? This is shit. Surprise. This is all shit. Shit and lies. But not shitty lies. And not really lies either. But it is shit and you got to give me that. I wish summer would get the fuck over. I can't stand it. Looking forward to fall. Perpetual fall. I need to find that place. It's probably called Autumnville. I'd find a home there.

19 July 2005

Feel The Void

Right. Here it fucking comes. Sheesh. Leave it alone.
I have this song and every time I hear it I decide, subconsciously, that I must go crazy. I must in fact be reminded of shit, which makes me loose my mind. For some reason I must play the song once a day. So my morning starts out with me waking up at zero dark thirty. I drive to PT and work out. Towel myself off and get into my car for the drive back. Shower. Hit up I Tunes. Play the song. Become depressed. Desire to smash something. Eat around 50 Tums extra strength antacid supplements. Try to calm down. Think about shit I miss. Think about people I haven't seen and will most likely never see again. Think about what life has done to them. Become disgusted with perverted thoughts racing through my head. Devise a plan to fake my death, have the life insurance money sent to my mother, smuggle myself into Old Mexico and start anew. What would I do? Who cares? Get some job as a bar back somewhere and live real humble. Pretend I am deaf and just read. I have no emotional interest invested into fictional characters. None. Zero. So if bad shit happens, oh fucking well. It's on to the next book.
I forgot what I was talking about. Yes, the book. Right. No. The song. Fuck. Yeah. So the song plays and I just think of how like people have to grow up and how they can’t stay the same person they were. It's enough to make me want to rip my eyes out so I'll never have to see it again. Then I think about like one day having kids and like watching them go through some ill shit. I doubt I could handle it. I would eventually go on a five state killing spree to try to make things better.
I think the problem is, is that I don't feel such emotions. Like bad shit happens to me and I really don't care. But bad shit rarely happens to me. And when it does it is always usually of my doing. So like I never get to analyze my emotions and grow into a better person because the pretty girl at the ice cream stand dumped me to be popular. I never gave much of a fuck about anything to go and organize a protest, or a walk out or not dissect a frog. I never gave a shit. But this song reminds me that people do this shit everyday. Thus I am saddened by my status as an ineffectual being and apathetic persona. I mean. I like, only really ever feel happy. I just don't give a fuck about much. I get super fucking pissed for like eight seconds, then return to being me. I get upset at like the stupidest shit too. And the shit I ought to be pissed about doesn't faze me.
I don’t know what to do about it because I suppose I ought to feel like other people. But then I don't really like people. So why would I want to feel like that. But then, isn't it my duty as a human being to feel and to grow in order to evolve? But who the fuck wants to evolve. Sure the hell not me. Unless it is into whoever is making out with Claire Danes. But then like. I've had it pretty easy. And I am all about easy. I am trying to set myself up so life won't be hard in the future. But then what makes me so special. The crux of it is that when I say shit like something depresses me or saddens me it doesn’t. I honestly could give a shit. But I feel I ought to have some emotional response. That makes me sad because I think it may be abnormal. But the I don't know what normal is. Are we even allowed to have a normal anymore? It's all very confusing. So don't listen to "Late at Night," by "Buffalo Tom."

Fade Into You

Right. I should note that after writing this post I was overcome with delight. After reading the post I have concluded that my suspicion of this post being the greatest writing ever constructed by the hand of man is correct. Enjoy!
Last night I was fucking starving. Do I curse too much? Fuck no. I was obnoxiously hungry. I decide it is in my best interest to grab the old cell phone and call up my local pizza delivery franchise. I order a pizza with about four hundred toppings. No. I was bullshitting. There were only three toppings, chicken, mushrooms and jalapeños to be exact. So I eat the pizza. I ate the son of a bitch good. I ate it in ways that made me feel dirty. But a good type of dirty. Like after you watch hermaphrodite porn. But then it hit. I felt so sick. I think the chicken was rotten. And there it went. Vomit spewed forth like a volcano. Only instead of lava, it was pizza. Did you see how I just insulted your intelligence there? I am sorry. Anyway, I continue puking up everything I ate and some stuff I didn't eat. I yacked up something, which tasted much like a chimichanga. Now I should inform you that the last time I had a chimichanga is further away than the last time I had sex. I hadn't drunk anything while I ate the pizza. So it was very hard to puke it up. Lack of lubrication and all. So as I made a pillow out of wadded up bath towels and tried to cover my trembling body with a large towel whilst I prepared for another night passed out on the bathroom floor, I got to thinking. I thought about what other foods I had such a hard time puking up when I was sick. I haven't really been sick in a very long time. I can't remember when the last time I was actually sick was. So I tried to remember my childhood. I couldn't remember ever being sick. I knew I had been, but couldn’t remember. Lastly I thought about people who suffer from the horrible disease gingivitis. No not gingivitis, bulimia. Yes, that's the disease. I was wondering what foods they eat to ease the vomit making process? What foods do they avoid?
I do not know of any people suffering from this devastating disease. So I cannot ask. But I am really curious.

18 July 2005

My Helmet Is On

Right. Look. I am no longer fucking around. I implore you. I beg of you. If you know ANYONE in the video game industry, please tell him or her to make an RPG out of the old Kid Icarus game. And after that they can make an RPG out of the whole Iliad and Odyssey. It is imperative that this shit gets done.
Windows are tinted. Blacked out. Looks good. I have a test today and I didn't study. I will probably fail. I don't really care.
You know what I don't understand? That movie, A Rebel Without A Cause. I just don't understand the happenings taking place in the movie. Why do the events take place? I really couldn’t tell you. It makes no sense.
Christ today is going by fast. Lunch flies by. I hate it. I took a test this morning and my streak of not studying for anything and scoring better than everyone remains intact. 98%. Chumps. I am that damn good.
I wish I were motivated today, to do anything. I just want to sleep. I would like to wake up in like a million years. See what's happening then. You dig?
I took a trip last night and seen it all. I saw the ground crumble from the blood of Jesus. I saw the Argonauts do their thing. I watched as Achilles drug the Body of Hector for three days around the walls of Troy. I tried to warn Caesar. I followed where Mosses led. I watched as Henry got married. I conspired with Oswald to kill JFK. I hid when Cronos ate his children. I hung out with two men named Ajax. I liked Ajax the Lesser more. I ate the Apples of the Hesperides. I got caught shucking and jiving with an Amazon. I saw the Golden Fleece. I told Walt he should think about mice. I fucked Cleopatra pretty hard. I borrowed Shakespeare’s pen. I gave the Druids an engineering textbook so they could build Stonehenge. Rimbaud gave me the flu. I drank with Salinger. I did all that and more. All in one night.

14 July 2005

I Know I'm With The Cretins And Deceitful Lying Whores

Right. How shitty it must be. Seriously. I ain't fucking around. It must be shitty. Sometimes I want to give up. But I really don't give a fuck. I mean shit. Balls. Bullocks to the lot. Sad. Funny. Hypocrisy knows no bounds. I guess. But we never want to look at ourselves. It's true on all sides. Would it be better if I liked Usher. Or thought 50 cent was talented. Or just closed my eyes and bought it? Swallowed the whole load? Jumped on the Red Sox bandwagon? Believed it? Knew if it is obscure it must be right? Fought the establishment? Fucked the man? Believed in conspiracies? Apologized? Maybe I should jump the gun? Think OJ was innocent? Believe MJ ain’t do it? Should I do all that? Ought I? Will I? We all know better than that shit. Fuck you. Am I too cryptic? Fuck you. Am I any different than I was? Fuck you. Songs will be sung about me. Fuck you. Wars will be fought over me. Fuck you. Men will die, children will suffer and women will moan because of me. Fuck you. I could really care less. Fuck you. I am the pariah that brings rapture. Fuck you. I will open the seals. Fuck you.
I'm feeling peckish, but I don't have food.
My phone is useless. I never get service.
Why are all the vampires portrayed as gay in that Tom Cruise movie?
So I took my notebook and wrote, "This Guy Loves The Cock," on the back. There is also an arrow pointing to the left. So I stand next to people I hate and have someone take a picture while the subject of my folly isn't paying attention. Genius. When I figure out how to post pictures I have, we will all see them. Why? Because it is funny as hell. But that means everyone will see me and know who I am if I bump into them in ten years while I am a homeless drunk sleeping in the gutters of London. But who cares. I'll just mumble something about how impaling people is a great way to negotiate when buying cheese balls. It won't be fucked up or anything because impaling people is a great negotiating tactic for damn near everything.
I was wrong. XM radio rules. I love my shit.
I met Lars Frederiksen once. I waited on him, his wife and his in-laws. The two were clearly uncomfortable with their son-in-law.

I Wish It Would Rain

Right. You know what is funny? Allegations. Like how one night I allegedly drank a lot of beer. Then, allegedly drank more beer. Allegedly I later made fun of some fat people. I then allegedly stole a shopping cart and proceeded to bash it into every car I saw on the 20-block walk home. The allegations go on to state that I was called back to the party to please the hostess with my mouth. See funny. Because why would any of that happen?
I knew this girl once. She had this way of living. I admired it. She just didn't give a fuck. I mean, I don't give a fuck, but this girl REALLY didn't give a fuck. Rent? Why would I pay you rent? That kind of nonchalance. She would eat pasta she made three days prior and never bothered to refrigerate it. It was spectacular. I admired her. But I heard a bus or something hit her.
Mother. I have been brushing my teeth every morning and night. I shower at least twice a day and make a point of it to wash behind my ears. I always say thank you and please. I call everyone by sir or mam. I chew with my mouth closed. I exercise regularly and eat my green vegetables. I get plenty of sleep and I never sit too close to the TV. I do all I can to be nice to people, keep an open mind and heart while sticking to my values and beliefs. I never eat meat on Friday’s. I attend mass every Sunday. I do this because you told me it was good, that my actions would be noted and I would be rewarded for doing the right thing. I try. I really do. I thank you. I love you. I couldn't have asked for a better mother. For all you are, and most importantly, for all you aren't, I appreciate you. I want to get into this remote viewing program the Army has to offer. Only they don’t offer it anymore. So it looks like I have to go to the CIA or learn it through private teachers. Bummer.
I hate the summer. I hate the sun. Fuck the sun, long live the fucking beast. I can't wait to get to Seattle in time for the holidays. I made a decision to move back to Boston when I am done with my current employment. I love cities.

13 July 2005

I Heard, As It Were

Right. I got my Magneto helmet on. You can't penetrate my mind. But it's cool because he is meeting me here today, to take me to his mansion in the sky. None of that is true. Not one word. I wonder if you knew that? Because I didn't until I really thought about it.
In reality, I have my Padres hat on. I have no plans on leaving to anything, except maybe the porn store. But I doubt I will go. I really don't like leaving my room.
I am really interested in how this show, "Rome," on HBO is going to turn out. It looks like it might be pretty good. But then there is that other show about the same shit on like ABC or some shit. I don't know why two stations would run the same show. I bet the one on HBO is better because of, what I have dubbed, the "titty factor."
I have been reading this stuff written by Father Malachi Martin. It is really some interesting stuff. If you dig that sort of thing, which I do. I am all about apocalyptic type shit. He also writes on some other shit, but I am not all that interested in it.
You know what some shit is that doesn't interest me at all. Aliens. Couldn't care less about them. I wouldn't mind whooping some grey ass though. I'd like to beat one until he tells me why all them crop circles have been popping up. I'll bet it has something to do with the NHL. I'll put money on the fact that the sole reason the aliens watch us and probe our asses and mutilate our cattle was to try and prevent the strike and now to get them back on the ice. Yep. Hockey rules the galaxy.
Sometimes I just go buy condoms to make the clerk think I am having sex.
I hate eggnog. No I don't hate it. I really enjoy it.
Anchorman is fucking hilarious.
I dated this girl for a brief stint in Graduate School. She was horrible.

I Won The Tripple Crown

Right. Let me preface my post, I don't give a shit. Do not argue with me I do not want to hear it. I do not care about the decision. It is not my job to opine. Don't use this to back up your argument or dissect it as rubbish propaganda from the military. This is simply what a two-star general told us yesterday was the reasoning for going to Iraq. Again. I don't want to argue. I am not trying to change your mind because I could give a shit less about the argument.
You live in your neighborhood. You have a wife, or husband, three kids a dog and for the most part good relations with your neighbors. In a cul-de-sac a few blocks from your street every woman on the street is being abused by her husband. For the most part everyone has his or her suspicions about what is going on. But no one wants to get involved because for the most part things are peaceful. Christmas parties and trick or treating and block parties. The neighborhood has its moments where things are plain nice.
One day you realize that all these women are in great danger. Bruises are more common. Hospital visits frequent. The kids don't play. One of the husbands you have a past with. Maybe he tried to run over your dog or something. His wife may not catch the worst of the beatings, but you recognize it is easier to help someone if you have a history with them.
You consider the possible outcomes of helping. You consider a thousand a thousand possibilities. One is appealing. Say you help this woman. What happens to the rest of the women? Do their husbands beat them worse out of fear of the wives following the first? Do they change the abuse, switching from physically to mentally abusing? Do they change their ways and seek counseling to help their marriage? Does nothing change? Do the women still not feel that they can escape? Do the women stand up and force change?
You decide it is worth the risk of everything for the possibility that the women will better their lives. You help the one woman. Shit happens. The husband comes over drunk and punches you in the eye. He steals your mail. He slashes your tires. You continue to support the woman. Ensure her that it is hard but worth it.
She leaves him. Files a restraining order. Kicks him out and starts to date a decent guy. We all know how people are. The ex shows up and tries to reconcile. Maybe start a fight with the new guy. Use kids against the wife. You continue to support the woman.
Now you wait to see if the example she sets will inspire hope in the other women.

12 July 2005

With All The Hooker's Sayin'

Right. I had a dream last night. A dream of epic proportions. I don't remember it, but it had to do with my mother, the Skate Life Crew, Guns and Roses and me being mugged in Vegas. I ended up naked and pulling a drive by on my attacker because he stole my clothes and G'n'R does not take kindly to members of the Skate Life Crew being fucked with.
The Skate Life Crew was the name a clique of friends decided to call itself. They mainly went to shows and to Denny's. I was a part of that magical time.
Anyway I would like to comment on your smile. I hate it. It makes me sick to my stomach. My gullet cries out in pain to be tortured every time I see it. It hurts to know that a smile so wonderful and completely beautiful can be subject to the sullies of such wretchedness as human beings. We are wretched, and your smile is so perfect it ought never have to suffer through the indignities others impose upon it. The emotions I feel when I look at it are too strong for me to comprehend. I know that as mortal beings your smile will soon enough fade as we grow older and will one day cease to exist, thus I hate your fucking smile. But I believe that the real reason I despise your smile is that it reminds me of my own limitations. I will never be as beautiful. I will remember it for as long as I can, but will eventually forget it. I do not have the ability to describe it to the extent it deserves. I will fail in making part of you immortal.

11 July 2005

Every Drop Counts

Right. I was thinking. You know what would be cool? A show like the Iron Chef only the two compete over who creates the last meal for a convict. Then dude eats it and we get to watch him die. But rest assured he died with his hunger satiated, which is more than most can say when they die.
It would also be really cool if the convict weren't privy to the ingredients used in the food. This would facilitate me telling the chefs to cook with dog shit and other forms of feces. That way if criminal guy picks a plate full of dog shit, it's a double whammy. Because he is going to die and he just ate shit.
It would also be HUGE props for the chef. Because he made shit taste good.
Damn I'd watch the hell out of that show.
I think a good way to get this show on the air would be to have sponsors pay for advertising. As opposed to how other shows get on the air. But I think our main sponsor ought to be this candy bar I've been thinking of inventing. It's kind of like a payday, only with a lot more nuts. I am talking a really offensive amount of nuts. The nuts will be held together by custard or something white. Maybe doughnut glaze. Anyway, the candy bar will be called Nuts in Your Mouth. AWESOME. The commercial will be comprised of three big assed fat black women singing, "Nuts in Your Mouth...BIAAAATCCCCHHHHHH."
This way not only do I get paid for other sponsors, but my advertising sells my candy bar and I make more money than Jay-Z.
It's fool proof I tell you. Fool proof.
To recap, 1st I make the candy bar, 2nd I get my show on the air and 3rd I bone Diane Kruger, Claire Danes, Kate Beckinsale, Brittany Daniel, Elviria, Alyssa Milano and Lanny Barby simultaneously because I have so much money they are blinded to my apparent bad looks.
Speaking of bad looks. I am at the mall the other day. Fine it wasn't a mall, it was clothing and sale, but I was there. I am looking for this patch for my Dress Blues and this little kid, he must have been about five years old, keeps staring at me. I look down and smile and this little bastard says, "Green eyed devil." What the bloodclot is that? His mother just looks at me as if to say, "Yeah. You heard him." Sheesh.

10 July 2005

This My Shit

Happy BIRTHDAY X!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

09 July 2005

Herpes Jokes Are ALWAYS Funny

Right. I think they should change something. Names. I don't think they should call a stroke a stroke. Because anytime I hear someone had a stroke my initial thought is, "Great. But why do I care if old dude is jerking off." Thus I look like an uncaring asshole. Because it takes me 15 minutes to realize they were talking about some other shit.
Here is my new plan, or scheme as it may very well be. I am going to have to find some dumb girl and trick her into boning me. Beat her mentally until she is dependant upon me. Then marry her and have kids.
Now I will admit that this is not my preferred course of action, but it seems like it may be the only viable option afforded to me. We play the hand we're dealt.
I want to do this because I have been thinking of cool names for kids. For instance I have a strong desire to name my future offspring, "My Ass." That would rule.
So you see me and congratulate me on having a kid and you ask his name. I tell you and we loose touch. We bump into each other at a Notre Dame game seven years later and you say, "My Ass is getting so BIG!" I laugh and everyone wins.
It works so well. "My Ass has VD." "My Ass is handsome."
Endless possibilities there.
Tomorrow is a very special day in the world.
I went to a barbeque with my OBC class last night. My streak of being the most hated in any group I am part of continues.
I own a world record. I broke two pinball machines last night in a span of 12 seconds. It was quite impressive considering I wasn't even trying to break them.

08 July 2005

Delta Dawn

Right. Who knew Achilles sold a werewolf into slavery? I did that's who. I decided fuck it and started running on the old knee again. It sucks. I'm slow because I haven't run in like 2 months. But whatever, the knee only swells slightly now. Less pain, it's a good thing.
My hair is stupid. I say to the lady, "I want a medium fade." Now how fucking hard is that? Apparently pretty damn hard. I think maybe she must own a hat store in addition to giving bad haircuts. My hair is neither medium nor faded. I should have gotten a bowl of soup with this hair cut. This is preposterous. I should write a letter. But the crazy Korean lady wouldn't care. She would continue giving bad haircuts to all the Army guys who go to her because she gives you a massage after she wrecks your hair. No happy ending or anything. It's just a, "Well I dicked up your hair. Allow me to alleviate some shoulder stress." That type shit.
I really suck at blogging.
You know what's funny? How like being around people makes them more attractive. Some of these girls are turning cute, but I know for a fact they are ugly.

07 July 2005

I'd Do It If I Could

Right. From here on out I will refrain from suggesting rioting of any kind on any city street as yesterday I think I may have said something Morrissey said, and London is bombed. Actually, fuck it; let's riot on the streets of wherever the fuck Cameron Diaz is. I hate her. Or let’s end this bullshit now and riot in the cave where Osama is hiding out. Oh wait we can't, laws prohibit us from going into that sovereign nation we still call an ally and whose military officers we still train. Fuck, even Afghanistan asked us to come in there.
Are the pietasters dead? Where the fuck are they?
I think something went wrong with my computers speakers. I used to be able to rock out to my I tunes, now nothing. I can barley hear it. I need a stereo, or an I Pod, or something.
I had a dream the shit hit the fan last night.
Here is a funny thing about my life. Remember how I told you they are turning the playground I live near into a gas station. Well they decided to start this morning at three. This translates into my day starting at 4:30 AM, ending at 5 PM, me becoming sleepy around 8, then doing everything I need to until 10 and now being woke up an hour an a half earlier because we don't want to let the children play. Fuckers.
Afternoon delight.
I wish football season would start. I am not bullshiting when I say this.
What is the status on the Tour De France? I don't understand the race. How can you finish 37th and place 3rd? Fucking frogs. Leave it to the French to consider losing winning.
So I went to subway yesterday because the Taco Bell here doesn't sell chili-cheese burritos. What the shit is that about? Anyway, the girl making my tuna sandwich was real flirtatious. It was nice but I was thinking, "Damn, this woman has to be like 40." Now that isn't a bad thing. Older women rule and I would love nothing more than to expunge seed on one. But she looked unhealthy. So I ask, I ask how old she is, is what I ask. She says she is 23. Sweet merciful crap, she is younger than me and is haggard beyond belief. I think to myself, what is this bitch doing to look so old. Maybe it's genetics. Maybe it's stress. Maybe she is just having a really bad day. Maybe she has some weird disease where she ages really fast and this is a result of something Wal Mart has done and she is waiting for her big fat payday. Now I will admit that while the last possible is highly improbable, it is the most attractive.

06 July 2005

Cornbread Earl and Me

Right. Today I am going to Reseda to fuck a model from Ohio whose real name I don't know, and then to die. The Vandals wrote a song about me today. Actually they wrote the song a long time ago but it is about me today. So Fuck You it's not your birthday.
Yes today is the day of the carnival of feet. No, I fucked that up, today is my birthday. The Yossarian turns 27 today. Twenty fucking seven. Fuck. What am I doing with my life? So being the astute reader that you are, you have deduced that if today is in fact my birthday, and I am in fact 27, then I must be a cancer born in the year of our lord 1978. That's a lot of useful information to deduce there super sleuth. So yes I am a cancer. It's hard to understand, as a child of course, why my zodiac sign killed grandma, but you live. You live to fight another day. And we riot in the streets of London.
Here's a thought: hey Brad Pitt, if you want to stop people from being poor, maybe you shouldn't make 20 million a picture. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.

I am the greatest. My life is shrouded in mystery, intrigue, romance and seduction. As I aptly demonstrate every second of my life through painful and disdainful looks with these grey Irish eyes. Military justice sucks. I mean I suppose it is a necessity, in the same manner that paperback books are a necessity, but I really hate learning about it. I'm so far along I just don't need you.
I have automated life machines jealous of my knack for living life.
I would like to drink wine, but I just can't stand the taste. And I have inside information that it pisses off Gloria Estefan.
I have my clearance and can access the secure net. Military type shit. Information at my finger tips. Secrets of the ages. I am drunk with power. Or maybe I'm just drunk. But some of the shit I've learned is pretty cool. Some of it is scary. Most of it is interesting. None of it can I discuss. So Fucking drop it.

05 July 2005

Suck My Oil

Right. Do you ever think, why the fuck did that just happen? What was the chain of events, which led to such bullshit? For instance, why did my mother tell me that Cold Mountain was a good movie? Why did I believe her? Why did I watch the movie and think that it is good? Why did my commander stop by while I was watching it to see my living arrangements? Why did this happen during the love scene betwixt Jude Law and Ms. Kidman? Why did I opt to pause it? Why did the commander take note that Jude Law's ass was paused on my TV as I showed him around? Why did the director decide that what the film was lacking was a GIANT shot of Jude's ass? Why couldn't my commander have dropped by ten second later, or earlier? Why?
I am the greatest at sleeping. I love sleep.
We all have to find our own way in this world, unless you are talking about making lasagna. Then there is only one prescribed method to your work. You must make it the same as everyone else. So is the rule of the cosmos. Don't complain to me, management makes the rules.
I think I may never have sex again.
I was in a Costco the other day. First of all, Costco rocks. But I digress. I bought myself a bunch of rum. I plan on drinking a lot of rum because I have decided that rum ought to be part of the food pyramid.
I would like to see more reality television. Because it doesn't suck at all. I enjoy the fuck out of it. But by reality television I clearly mean women who want to bone me.

04 July 2005

Better Picture Man

Right. It's been a while since I said anything. But I've been saying a lot. I've been sitting in a room listening to Linda Ronstadt singing Blue Bayou. All while trying to blow my brains out but the bullet doesn't work. No wait. That was a Man on Fire.
I hung out with some old friends Saturday night. I am still contemplating who left whom behind. I can't figure it out.
I learned a good man died while I was in training. I suppose a lot of good men died, but one in particular died and he will be missed. He was a good man, father and mentor. His memory is bigger than most men's lives.
So other than that shit my four-day weekend was perfect. I successfully hermited my weekend away. My mother says it's unhealthy, but I say so is a brain tumor. We all have our vices, and mine happened to be hiding from the world. Yours may be a large brain tumor. To each their own. That's my motto.

01 July 2005

Still Riding With Them Fellas Down That Unknown Road

Right. K-Luv is back at it. Good. I thought he died on me. I admire him. I miss him. He is, no matter how bad at correspondence he is, my most cherished friend. So go click his shit and read up. Every word he says is gospel.
I saw Batman last night. It's pretty fucking good.
I saw her today. I haven't seen her in close to two years. I'm on the phone with Ruck in a grocery store. I see her from the side. Stops me dead in my tracks. I follow, because I am dumb. Amazing. She is beautiful. Why did we break up? Oh yeah, meth. She also tried to stab me, but I can let that slide. She is really something. I can't make out a word Ruck says as I follow her, wondering if I ever appreciated her for what she is rather than what I thought she was. The shape of her shoulders, waist, legs and neck...perfect. I haven't missed her until now. She stops and starts to turn around. I am befuddled. What the fuck am I going to do? What will I say? "I'm going to have to call you back dude." Click. It isn't her. Thank fucking Christ. She is the spitting image of her sans face. My heart breaks. This woman didn't try to stab me. This woman didn't leave for months on end while trafficking meth across the country. This woman didn't make me miserable for years. This woman just reminded me of her. I hope she rots in hell for it.