26 February 2007

What The Fuck Is With This New Blogger?

Right. This is gay. I hate this new blogger bullshit. It's wicked retarded. I don't know what the hell is going on. I am sure I am the last monther fucker on the earth to get down with this new stupid version of blogger. But whatever.

So I understand the Oscar's were last night. Good. I think I am prepared and qualified to give predictions of who won. I am prepared because I didn't watch the awards nor any of the movies except maybe two, and I am qualified because I have never been wrong about anything ever. So let's make with it. (If for purely conspatorial reasons, one of my predictions is wrong please know that I was right had everything been working properly with the world. It's a vast left or right wing conspiracy depending on which side is being the bigger douche at the moment.)

I will only predict the awards that matter. Most of them are dumb and no one knows what the fuck a sound editor does.

Best Supporting Actor: Marky Mark, Alan Arkin, Eddie Murphy, Jackie Earle Haley and Djimon Hounsou.

The winner is: The Clash's London Calling. A suprise here considering it wasn't nominated nor is the greatest record ever even an actor. But the rest of the asshats don't deserve an award and as far as I am concerned an award show that doesn't present an awaerd to this record isn't worth my time.

Best Leading Actress: Penelope Cruz, Judi Dench, Kate Winslet, Meryl Streep and Helen Mirren.

The winner is: In what is clearly an oversight of the boner Keira Knightly inspired in Pirates of the Whocares, Penelope Cruz is hot and deserves an Oscar. Considering I've dubbed my Keira Knightly inspired wood "Oscar."

Best Director: Whoever the hell directed: Babel, The Departed, The Queen, United 93 and Letters From Iwo Jima.

The winner is: What the hell is directing? How is it hard? In what capacity in the survival of our species is directing people to say what they memorized an integral part in keeping us alive? Why has no movie I've ever liked been nominated for an award? I was once told if you watch a movie without sound, you can tell what the quality of the director. I watched, "Christmas Vacation," without sound once and it was still funny and that guy didn't win a fucking thing. Anyway, I've seen none of these movies but I wanted to see Babel so that guy wins.

Best Leading Male: Will Smith, Peter O'Toole, Forest Whitaker, Ryan Gosling and Leonardo DiCaprio.

The winner is: No one who entertained me this past year that's for sure. I will let you in on a secret, the trailer for that Will Smith movie made me cry, so I think he should win.

Best Supporting Female: Cate Blanchett, Jennifer Hudson, Abigail Breslin, Adriana Barraza and Rinko Kikuchi.

The winner is: Who the fuck are these women? I haven't heard of a single one. I'd have given the award to that woman from Ricky Bobby. She's hot. That movie was funny. Rosario Dawson is hot too. Clerks 2 was funny. Why is nothing I like nominated? Who cares who wins this? Not me. I'll shoot with Cate Blanchett because I like the name Kate.

Best Picture: Babel, The Departed, The Queen, Letters from Iwo Jima and Little Miss Sunshine.

The winner is: Snakes on a Plane.

Movies I've seen this year that are great and will never get an award: Cars, Ice Age, Ricky Bobby, Nacho Libre, Rocky Balboa, The Break Up, Clerks 2 and the goriest movie ever Apocalypto.

21 February 2007

I Shouldn't Be Allowed To Speak

Right. I am dumb. I do dumb things. I make dumb decisions.

19 February 2007

Blue Steel .45

Right. I went to the dumbest country ever this weekend. Austria. That country is stupid. First of all, I give a fuck about the European Union, I want stamps in my passport. The airport did it in Italy for me, and there is an actual border to the republic of Czech, and even though they thought I was stupid they stamped the fucker. There is a little sign that says something to the effect that you may or may not be in Austria. So no one stamped my passport.
Then I ate. While the food is Austria is similar to that in Bavaria, it managed to be a tiny bit better than the horse shit they serve in Bavaria. It still sucked, but there was ketchup. Ketchup goes a long way. Except for Barbarian ketchup, you have to drench your food in the shit to get the bad taste out of your mouth.
Then I went around some town and couldn't help but notice that Austria is the polar opposite of Los Angeles, in that the ugliest 3% of women in the world live there. It was awful. But Austrian food gave me gas, so I farted every time I walked past a woman. It made me happy to think I gave their nose what they gave my eyes.
Then I went to sleep watching a form of billiards called snooker. Snooker rules and was not invented by anyone affiliated with Germany or Austria.
Then came that fateful day I decided to climb a mountain. Not rock climbing. I climbed a fucking mountain. It was the dumbest thing I ever did. I mean, it was fun and I laughed a lot, but who climbs a fucking mountain? I do. We took this cable car up the mountain and then climbed the bitch to the top. There I am with ropes and D rings and spikes and shit, climbing a mountain and I thought about this girl I dated in grad school and I dropped the fucking camera, along with my helmet. I don't know why my helmet was off, but it was and I dropped it. Me and my buddy climbed the rest of the way and then we tied the rope into a Swiss seat and came on down the mountain. It was pointless. Nothing was up there. No hot bitches. No fireworks. No chupacabra. Nothing. Someone else even posted a flag.
After the mountain I bought a 20 dollar cup of hot chocolate and called it a trip. We hit the autobahn and came home. He to his wife and children and me to my attic.
Then I played Civilization until 6 in the morning. Then I slept for an hour. Then I got a haircut. Next I ate lunch. Then I ran 5 miles. Then I swam for a while. Then I came home and showered. Then I had to reset my Ipod because it is also stupid. Then I listened to John Denver. Then I blogged. Now I am thinking about what else I could be doing with my time. Next I will drink gin from the bottle and think about jerking off.
This weekend was great.

15 February 2007

I Walk The Way The Wind Blows

Right. Her silence speaks volumes and her words don't mean shit. This is what she means to the world. This is who she is. If my life were a hockey stick, she'd be the tape on the blade; giving it more control and keeping it from splintering into a thousand ruined pieces. That is how she rolls.
Her hair flows in the wind like it doesn't understand why it isn't in perpetual motion. Her hair waves at the blood running down my face like a child waves at a parade.
She receives disapproving looks from parents. She makes children smile. Old men look at her and remember Ava Gardner. Old women look at her and see the loose girl they had to keep away from their sweethearts. She walks by all and judges herself more harshly or more evenly that anyone else will ever.
The less you stress her, the quicker she'll call. The more you give her the more she'll take. The more you flatter her the less she wants. The more she needs the less she'll ask. She's invited into the VIP room, but drinks homemade gin with me in the janitor's closet.
This is who she is and the curiousness of her potential kiss leaves me as a mind without a soul. This is who she was and the clarity of her hued umbra leaves me as a body without a heart. This is who she will be and the leanness of her peerless legs leaves me as a boy without a mother.

13 February 2007

My Nostradamus Book Scares The Shit Out Of Me

Right. I like Elvis. Sue me. I always have. I don't know what to tell you. I just like he guy. I feel he got a bum deal. I mean, he, in a way, created something that consequently created amazing things. But it also created Limp Biscuit. So maybe he was a douche. No. He was cool. I also feel bad because people only want to laugh and say "Fat or skinny Elvis." As if there were two. I mean, I think he was only fat for like a week and then he died. If you were to live your whole life and only be fat the last week of your life, good on you. People would probably say, "Ronald was a slim dude." But fucking Elvis eats it and everyone is all, "Elvis was fat." Sod off.
Why am I talking about Elvis?
I could turn this blog into a work blog. I could tell you all about the adventures I have at work. But really there are none. There are days in the Army I love. Days I think to myself, "Wow. I am so fucking happy I did this." Then there are days when I think, "I wish one of these weapons would misfire and blow my brains out my fucking head." I like it when a soldier will come to me with a problem and I can solve it. Help them out. Give them advice. I like that shit. But then there are days when all thinking, problem solving, reasoning and the need for a brain is gone because everything must be done "this" way. I hate that shit. I got it. I am a grown ass man. There are a million ways to fuck a hooker. If I choose to do it one way, that should be fine. The end product was the same, and I got to put thought into it. But no. I always end up redoing whatever I just did because I didn't do it the way some clown says I should have. If all you want is a trained dog, then hire a moron and he can follow the manual. I like to figure it out and accomplish it my own way.
I am about to switch jobs. That sucks. I like being a platoon leader. I like to work with soldiers and help them out and build teams. That is fun. I am going to staff. I will do my 11 more months and leave the Army. Barring we don't invade Iran or provoke them to come into Iraq and fight us there. I sometimes think the world is about to end and instead of doing what I want to do, I am doing what someone else said I have to do and I won't enjoy the last few years we all have left alive.
Someone want to tell me why the fuck Anna Nicole Smith is news worthy? I'll bet a thousand big tittied women die every 24 hours. No big deal. Some other chud will get some surgery and I will jerk off to her. It's the circle of the spank bank material.
I am reading a book called, "Gates of Fire," and it is the fucking jet. I am going to see where Mozart was born this weekend. I had a big ass zit on my shoulder I just popped. Things are on the Proverbial upswing.
When I see her again I will tell her that I thought of her more than I desired while I was gone. But it'll probably be at a welcome back party and I'll be drunk. Then I'd say something about how I've been half in love with her since I met her. Then I'd say she shouldn't think of me as a creep, because I know she has a boyfriend and I've pretty much always felt this way and never acted creepy and that I am happy she is dating Ted or Nick or what's his nuts over there because I could never make her that happy. Then I'd tell her to forget it and that I shouldn't have brought it up and that I am drunk and that I hope it doesn't mean we can't hang out because I am dumb and she is not. Then she'll probably want to talk more about it and clarify that I am a moron. I'll be fine with that.
Then she'd ask why I don't want to talk about it anymore and I'd tell her because I don't feel like getting rejected at my welcome back party. I also don't feel like having her accept my unwanted advances because it is my welcome back party either. More, I'd like to earn one thing in my life on my own merit, and I can't think of anything else I'd rather earn than a glimmer of her affection. Because her attitude towards me I would want pure and honest because she is the only woman that, when I am around, I am not hoping we get drunk enough to make some bad decisions. I just feel better about myself when she is around. And her feeling for me needs to be true and from the heart. Be it love or hate in order for me to feel that way.
Then it might get awkward. So I'll pretend I swallowed a bug and go get another drink and act like the whole conversation happened during a blackout and I don't remember what I said.
Then I'll sing some karaoke, maybe some Billy Idol or Poison or Biz Markie and wash my hands of her because that is clearly the wrong way to approach her. I should have stayed in Darfur.

10 February 2007

Everything In My Mind

Right. Why do I do this? What satisfaction do you derive here? How long can I manage doing this? Who will help me when I need it most? When will things make sense again? Where did I go wrong?
I need your help. It is for an occurrence I need to occur. Post haste. You know what it is. I shall not mention it here. Forces monitor mediums of mediating reality. Forces even more powerful control the possibility of the happenings. If you look in your heart, you will know what I need. Please help. I never said I was unhappy. It is more written across my face. It's in the color of my spit. It's in the violence of action when I shower in water drawn straight from a shallow river. When you see me again, is up to you. When you see me again will be for the first time. When I see you again I will know who once was and where he went wrong. That will be written on your face. It will be in the mixture of your drink. It will be in the grip of your handshake. This is why I need help. I need it from all of you. I need it from all of them. I need it from myself. Fucking send it.
No matter. Don't sweat it. I'm being polite. I need everything. I am no longer self sustaining. But I need this most.
Pretend I am a starving kid in Burma. Or a hooker down the hall. I need the help. So give it to me.
On a Saturday in late Septemer, I will look over at you and smile. You won't really know why, and you'll tell me I need to eat and stop drinking. I'll stop smiling, loosen my tie, press my glass against my forehead, close my eyes and pray. You will not think of it again. I will carry that afternoon with me forever. The day I realized why I desired to come back. I thank you in advance. I'll be too drunk to do it when I'm there.
On a Thursday in mid July, I will wonder where you are. I will walk a street I'e driven a million times before and not know where to go. You will be sick of my pressence. You will stay away to dine peacefully with a girl you hate. This moment I will forget as I drink myself to remember memories forgotten. I will never bring the deamons back after that night. You will never thank me. I will always hold it agains you.

07 February 2007

Black Debbie

Right. Digital vats of urine. That's what life is all about. Because I am beyond the moon. No. I'm bullshitting. Life is all about better shit. And I'm from right here. Except more over there than here. At best, it's there. But it's in my heart. So, it's here. In a way. But not really.
www.pornotube.com is the greatest thing ever to happen to me. If you don't count MILF porn. Which you can. Especially on that site.
I can't believe that stupid bitch stole my idea of driving with a diaper on to save time. I just wanted to do it to further my lazy tendencies. She wanted to try and kidnap someone. All good ideas are destroyed by crazy people.
I would like a girlfriend. Seriously. I want her to be just like me, except I want her to like her job. It would also be beneficial if she didn't have a cock. Personality wise, she needs to be like me. She needs to be pretty, like me. She also needs to be funny.
There is some bullshit going on at work and I don't want to be part of it because I hate ceremonies. I hate formalities. I hate parties. I hate work-related-fun. I like nonwork-related-fun. Like not working. I like not seeing the people I work with for 15 minutes a day after the drive home, after the shower, before I blog and then after when I listen to music as I go to sleep. That's not fun. But at least I'm not at work.
Another thing I am not a big fan of is the lack of attractive women meandering about my apartment.
This whole new plan. Won't work. I hate to be the one to tell ou this. But it won't. Nothing will work. Nothing short of fire and salt. Maybe a lime. I'm sure if we introduced Rum it would be easier. Like how we got rid of the Indians. Feathers not dots. Only with rum. And less land stealing. That would be nice.
When I answer for my sins, you will not be one. I hope I believe it. I pray my belief makes it true. I know it won't. Your brains. That wall. My hand. Not sorry. I laughed. Pretty texture. Strange smell. See you.

05 February 2007

Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven

Right. I am not positive that I want to die. But I am sure I do not want to live with the images occupying my mind. I'm not sure how it's going to work out. But I think the solution involves me getting my real estate license.
The shit of it is, is that I have no asylum and King Solomon left long ago. The service I can provide is immaterial because there is no need for stop gap problems to a permanent solution. I refuse to believe this so I continue to wash my hands in dirt.
Something was once very special here. Once, God used this land as his thrown. Once. Now, the land is as barren as the hearts of the ancestors of the men who drove God away from here. Now. Tomorrow I will awake from a light sleep and run. I will run until I sweat out the knowledge I gained and my heart beats so fast I take 50 years off my life. Tomorrow.